


The Familiar Stranger

by nextboldmove



Series: Sherlock Eva Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drowning, Drug Use, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Gen, Het and Slash, Kidnapping, M/M, Nightmares, Rape, Romance, Sex, Torture, casefic, unhealthy sexual practices, violence against a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextboldmove/pseuds/nextboldmove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings, kinks and contents: drug use, domestic violence, emotional abuse, torture, rape, kidnapping, drowning, nightmares, sex, violence against a child, unhealthy sexual practices. Much of this is discussed as happening in the past.</p>
<p>Still learning how this works, so I've edited the entire story summary: It has been three months since Sherlock’s plane has turned around. Three months of cases that, if they had not been put into play by Moriarty, would have bored Sherlock to tears. But when a mysterious woman shows up at his flat inquiring about a painting that Sherlock himself has been researching, Moriarty is no longer their top priority.</p>
<p>This is the first "episode" in an alternate version for the fourth season/series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I haven’t written fic in YEARS, and this is my first in the Sherlock fandom. Even though I’m a Johnlock shipper through and through, this is NOT really a slash now, although I’m not sure it won’t end up being one at some point or another, even if it’s one-sided. Ever since The Last Vow, I’ve been going over possible season 4 plots in my head, and this is what I came up with.  
> ***I feel like a Mary Sue warning should be here, however, I’m not so sure because, well I can’t tell you or it ruins the ending. I feel like his fake romance with Janine may have stirred up something, but like he does, he’ll get bored. I have taken some characters from ACD canon and inserted them into the BBC canon, so if you’ve read any of the ACD stories you will recognize names and some events.
> 
>  
> 
> I CHANGED THE RATING to explicit because it's the overall rating. I'll trying to put ratings in each individual chapter summaries.

Prologue

“The only Man in Black in all of Great Britain, and here you are wearing mustard and brown.”

Mycroft does not avert his gaze from its current target. He was admiring the beauty of the city from the full-length window in this office. It inspired hatred him, that one of the oldest buildings in all of London has been renovated to include these large windows. It’s twilight. The sky not yet completely black, the lights of the city slowly twinkling to life. Perhaps this is why they built in these huge windows. It’s much easier to observe the beauty of the city from a distance. Easier for people in positions such as his to make the hard decisions when you are divorced from the all too real consequences.

“Mycroft,” repeats the man, this time with more consternation in his voice than before.

“I prefer antiquity,” Mycroft turns around, not at all surprised to see his companion wearing a slate grey suit, white shirt and muted blue tie. His hair is so perfectly groomed he probably ran a comb through it before stepping in the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Mr. Coddings?”

“It’s been three months.”

“I know how to consult a calendar.” Mycroft displays a big, tight-lipped smile that laughs at his own joke.

“Three months and not a word.” Mr. Coddings clears his throat and shifts his weight—a clear tell that he is about to pull rank on a man that he’s not all that secretly terrified of. “They are demanding results.”

“So is my brother.”

“They let a murderer free in London for the sole purpose of stopping Moriarty…”

“Which Sherlock is doing.” Mycroft turns back to the window just in time to see another light switch on in some nameless building down the street. “He has his eyes on suspected cohorts.”

“Eyes, we could have done that without him.”

Mycroft stiffens ever so slightly from the remark. “You know full well you couldn’t. Mr. Coddings, I have my brother on level 4 surveillance. He has already identified two individuals who were patrons of Moriarty’s…services.”

“Small-time criminals from what we have vetted.”

“Are you using the proper torture techniques?”

“We are not…”

“Of course you are.” Mycroft turns to gaze at Mr. Coddings. There’s something about a powerful man squirming that makes his heart skip a beat. “You know don’t ask my brother to turn them over so you can have them for tea.”

“Mr. Holmes…”

“Mr. Coddings, Sherlock is working. He wants Moriarty dead as badly as the rest of us. For real this time. Believe it or not, my brother did not fake his own death simply because he was bored. He was trying to stop him. He saved lives. He hurt the people closest to him in the world, and yes, before you say anything, he does care about a select few. Now, if there is nothing further, I would like to retire for the night. I have a date with a dressing gown and a bottle of Scotch.”

Mycroft doesn’t allow the other man chance for response before turning on a heel and leaving the room.

 

CHAPTER ONE

“JOHN WHERE DID YOU PUT THE PEANUT BUTTER?” Mary slams shut the cupboard and moves to the next one, pulling open the cupboard with a bit too much strength.

John Watson speeds into the room, pulling a light jacket over his jumper and grabbing keys off the table. “We ran out this morning, I’ll get some right away.”

Mary stops her fervent search and turns to smile at her husband. “Thank you love.”

“Anything else while I’m out?” John sighs, knowing that no matter what he will be going out at least one more time before this day is over. Mary’s cravings were less predictable than her mood swings. “I’m not going to come home to find you gnawing on a pencil again, am I?”

“I was just chewing it, not eating it,” she waddles over to him and plants a kiss on his cheek. “And yes, we are nearly out of herbal tea. And crisps. And whipped cream—the fat free kind already made.”

John moves closer to Mary, placing his palms against her belly. “I’ll return as soon as I can. Keep her there until I get back.”

“I’m not due for another two weeks! I hate calling her ‘her’ we need to settle on a name already.” She pushes his hands away playfully. “Peanut butter. NOW!”

John gives her another peck on the cheek before turning and heading out the door. John knows that the scans can be off by as much as three weeks, especially since leading up to the wedding they weren’t exactly refraining from sex. The truth is that she could very well go into labor while he was out fetching peanut butter from the market.

Once in the car, he pulls out his mobile.

Beatrice?

He gets a reply before he can put the keys in the ignition.

At St. Bart’s. Come quickly. –SH

In an hour, have urgency of my own. John replies.

I suppose. –SH

~

“It’s a terrible name.” Sherlock does not look up from the computer screen when John enters Mary’s lab at St. Bart’s.

“And hello to you to, Sherlock.” John strolls in, setting a takeaway cup of tea next to Sherlock’s cold takeaway cup of coffee. “Is that why you beckoned me here so urgently?”

“Please don’t tell me the urgency of your own was the birth of Beatrice,” Sherlock remarks, taking a sip from the hot tea John brought for him. “I haven’t sufficiently practiced correctly holding an infant.”

“No, Mary wanted…”

“Good,” Sherlock sets the tea down. “There has been a theft, an artwork from a gallery. In the East End.”

“Oh of course, what else could it be, found a tiny kitten stuck in a tree?” John sarcastically comments under his breath before remembering Sherlock’s earlier comment. “Practice?”

“I dropped the watermelon twice.” This piece is unique. It was painted in human blood.”

“That’s disgusting,” John mutters. “Wait, do you think it’s…”

“I can’t think of someone who would steal a painting done in blood unless Moriarty prodded them to.” Sherlock sighs. “I’m getting really sick of these petty little cases. Either he is enjoying the tease or he’s still planning his…something. So dramatic.”

“Listen Sherlock, Mary could have the baby any day now and I’m not sure I should be…I mean of course you are my best friend and I will do anything you need, but if it’s possible I would like to actually be present at the birth of my first child.”

“Beatrice is a terrible name by the way.”

“You’ve said that about every name I’ve asked you about except the name Sherlock.”

“Because all names except the name Sherlock are terrible.” A quiet ‘ding’ rings from Sherlock’s pocket. He removes his mobile and checks the screen. “Let’s go.”

“Where? I’m going back home, to my wife, who could have a baby at any moment.”

Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf. “Baker’s Street. We have a client waiting.”

~

“Oh Sherlock, she looks so tired. I told her she could sit upstairs and when I went up with tea, she was fast asleep. Poor dear.” Mrs. Hudson walks behind Sherlock and John up the stairs to 221B Baker’s Street. “John dear, why aren’t you at home with Mary? Oh, I can’t wait for that baby to be born!”

“Me neither,” John says politely. 

“Have you picked a name? Something classic, British. Very fitting for the two of you.” Mrs. Hudson remarks as the trio arrives at the landing atop the stairs.

“Not Beatrice,” murmurs Sherlock as he steps into his flat.

The first thing Sherlock notices are three bags near the door. The first is a rolling suitcase. Red. Large enough for a week’s worth of clothing and personal items. The wheels are scuffed from use, heavy use. Either its owner travels frequently or it is second-hand. The second is an oversized handbag. Carry on. The black and white hound’s-tooth pattern is trendy, suggesting its owner is no older than forty and female, but Mrs. Hudson already told him it was a woman. The third is a black laptop case. Plain, professional, affixed with a metal nameplate indicating a brand that caters to the business world. This bag is also scuffed around the bottom corners, indicating it travels more frequently than the other two bags.

“Sherlock,” John nods towards the couch. There is a woman, curled up asleep. Her face is obscured by the sleeves of her oversized knit jumper. Cream, worn. Probably her favorite garment. The type of thing a woman would wear when traveling for a considerable distance. Her hair, shoulder-length, is a copper brown. Wavy, with the start of a bed knot forming on the back of her head. Slept during her travel. She is wearing black trousers, fitted but not tight. The kind a woman would wear with a blazer in the office. Bright red socks, as she had slipped off her black loafers before putting her feet on the couch to nap. 

“John, you wake her, the last thing I want is a screaming woman in my flat.” Sherlock pours himself a cup of tea from the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought up for their guest.

“Miss?” John gently touches the woman’s shoulder. “Miss, I’m Dr. John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

The woman stirs awake. Her eyes appear first as she moves her hands from her face and sits up. There are dark rings under her eyes. Her eyes are a dark grey-blue. Face is not quite round, but not long. Jaw is distinct but not masculine. She’s not wearing any cosmetics. Her upper lip is a bit thin compared to the bottom. Pink lips. Perhaps she’s wearing lipstick.

“I’m so sorry,” American. Midwest by the way she pulls out the “o”. She pulls at her jumper to adjust it over herself. Sherlock notices a red shirt peeking out from the collar. “That lovely woman said I could wait up here for you and I just…”

“It’s quite alright,” Sherlock interjects, pulling up a chair across from the couch. “Now, sit here.”

John nods before the woman can give him a questioning look. She takes a moment before standing. She couldn’t be more than an inch taller than John. Her build slim, not athletic but not emaciated. Her cheeks flush when she looks back to Sherlock. “I really didn’t want to, I mean, poor first impressions.”

John cocks his head, “have we met before?”

“No, no I don’t believe so,” the woman replies.

“It’s just that you seem so familiar…”

“Sit,” Sherlock demands. She does. Both Sherlock and John take their seats. “Now, tell us who you are and why you came here.”

“My name is Helen. Helen Stone. I’m…I’m here because the FBI has given up and I need to find the man who killed my sister.”

“What makes you think he’s here in London?” asks John.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Sherlock. “I saw this on the internet. Happened a few days ago. I wouldn’t have known unless it had gone missing.”

Sherlock glances at the paper before handing it to John. “Why didn’t you bring this to the FBI then?”

“I did, but apparently they aren’t interested. So I did my research and discovered Dr. Watson’s blog. Managed to get a flight here last night, well, this morning mostly.”

John looks at the story printed on the paper. “It’s the missing painting done in bl…”

“Blood.” Helen tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Pierced, diamond stud. Fake. “Since painting in blood is not illegal they won’t bother.”

“Sherlock?” John looks to him.

“The Sussex Vampire.” Sherlock looks back to Helen. 

“I hate it when people call him that. His name was Donald Flack. My sister, Julia, was one of his victims.”

“Thank you for not being boring,” replies Sherlock robotically.

“Excuse me?” her voice tremors. 

“And you think this painting is in, in her blood?” asks John.

“No. I mean, maybe. But, the trail has gone cold back in the States. They never caught him and he stopped killing so they gave up. What if he is here, what if he stole that painting?”

“Anyone could steal a painting,” replied John.

“When the Sussex Vampire, Donald Flack, stopped killing, many of his painting were taken into evidence,” stated Sherlock. “A rookie agent with the American FBI stole them and sold them at auction. They all sold, but not for very much.”

“After Julia was killed I researched serial killers.” Helen wrings her hands in her lap, but softly, like it was a tic more than trying to repress intense emotion. Tears sting the corners of her eyes.  
“They like to keep trophies. Well, these paintings were his trophies. Don’t you see? He’s come back to collect his trophies. The FBI won’t help, I tried contacting the British government. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I need you.”

John wants to give her a hug and tell her everything will be alright. This woman has lost her sister and thinks she had a lead. Nobody will help her. As much as John wants to go home to be with Mary, he knows he has to be here, help Helen Stone.

John is pulled out of his thoughts by the stillness in the room. He turns to Sherlock. Sherlock is staring at Helen, his hands tented in front of his face, fingertips resting on his lips. He doesn’t blink. John has seen this look before. “Sherlock…”

“We will take the case.”

Helen smiles, her body relaxing. “Thank you, thank you. I…I brought money. I haven’t been to exchange it yet, but…our mother died recently and I kept most of her Commonlife payment…it’s not much but whatever it cannot cover I will in one way or another. Anything it takes money or….” She glances at Sherlock, “Anything else it takes.”

Sherlock puts his hands on the rests of his armchair, face tightening even further. “That won’t be necessary. Just pay me by telling me your real name.”

“SHERLOCK!” John stands up. “This woman has lost her sister, she is not one of his…”

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, please,” Helen tears up. “I know I don’t act like the crying family member you see on the television, but…”

“Your name, Miss.” Sherlock doesn’t break his gaze with her. "And where you are really from.”

She sighs, sitting up straight. She stops wringing her hands. Her face hardens. “I thought I covered my tracks rather well.” A British accent. “What gave me away?”

“Of course this is why you wanted to rush back here, Sherlock.” John stares at Helen. Or whoever she is. “You are working for Moriarty,” he says, sitting back down.

“Wrong,” replies Sherlock. “Your name.”

She looks to the ground. “Eva Blackwell. Agent Eva Blackwell. Well, Agent Dr. Eva Blackwell, FBI. And CIA, well, they borrowed me a few times.”

“American FBI? With a British accent?” John tosses his notepad and pen on the floor, having given up on ever being ahead of the plot in this flat.

“I was born in the US, spent my childhood in London, sent back when I was a teenager. Dual citizenship has some advantages.” Eva turns back to Sherlock. “I really am here about Flack.”

“Why, you are FBI what do you need us for?” Sherlock sips his tea.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Eva smirks. John looks over to Sherlock to see if he’ll take the bait.

“Your luggage, well worn. You travel for your job. The laptop bag is one a professional would use, completely against the rest of your colorful personality. Also, no identity tags. If you came straight from the airport there would be tags on the bags, which tells me you arrived here and realized that I would look at the tags and see your real name, so you took them off when you got here.” Sherlock smirks, knowing full well she was baiting him but being so full of himself he doesn’t care. “Should I go on?”

“Please do, I want to know what I’m paying for.” Eva sits back in the chair.

“You were sleeping on the couch with your feet in front of you, facing the door. I heard your breath hitch when we walked in, you were awake. Vigilant. Your accent, while good, needs a bit of work. The tremors were not emotion, but rather your attempting to pronounce words correctly when caught surprised. Also, you said you would pay me with your mother’s Commonlife. While they have that in the States, it’s not common. But it’s all over the UK. Oh, and you called the US ‘the States’ which is distinctly British.” Sherlock stands. “Remember, we are taking your case for free, so you can put away the money you don’t have because that too, is a lie.”

“I really was sleeping until you came up the stairs, the only flight I could get was the red eye. You forgot something,” Eva stands up, a bit more poised than before. Confident. “And I wouldn’t call it a lie as much as a cover story, poorly planned apparently but I’m not used to having to fool men like you.”

“The trophies,” interjects John. “I’m right, you talked about the trophies.”

“These days anyone with Wikipedia could find that out,” retorted Sherlock.

“Yes, but it is quite a leap for a regular person to make the connection between the missing painting and the killer trying to reclaim it,” Eva turns to John, “Nice work Doctor.”  
John crosses his arms on his chest and smiles smugly. “See Sherlock, some people know how to give compliments.”

“Mr. Holmes, I do need your help. I am looking for Flack and I do think he’s the one who stole the painting.” Eva looks to the ground before look back to Sherlock. “My assistant director doesn’t know I’m here, he wouldn’t approve it. I took leave.”

“So is Julia even real?” asks John.

“Yes, she was Flack’s last known victim,” interjects Sherlock. “About a year ago.”

“Julia Stone was thirteen years old, Flack abducted her and killed her in a warehouse, called her mother to tell her where to find the body, from what we gathered he was already three states away.” Eva shakes her head. “I convinced the task force that he would take her to this abandoned house on Sussex. He either knew or I was wrong.” She tenses at the word. Like Sherlock, she must be boiling at admitting she was not right about something. 

“You are wrong, but not about that,” Sherlock states. “It’s Moriarty.”

“Excuse me? Moriarty?” Eva looks perplexed.

“Sit back down, Miss Blackwell,” John guides her to his chair. “I suppose if it’s possible that this is Moriarty, you need to be caught up.”

“No, believe it or not American intelligence is aware of Moriarty, but he’s dead. The last the American’s were told is that he shot…”

“Trust me, sit down,” John interrupts. 

“Nope,” Sherlock stands up and reaches for his coat. “We need to catch a cab.”

“Where are we going?” Eva slips her red stocking feet back into her shoes.

“The gallery.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings, kinks and contents: drug use, domestic violence, emotional abuse, torture, rape, kidnapping, drowning, nightmares, sex, violence against a child, unhealthy sexual practices. Much of this is discussed as happening in the past.
> 
> Summary: Agent Blackwell reminds everyone of someone, but who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a WIP, but The Familiar Stranger will be episode 1 of my envisioning of series 4. Not mine, all Moffat/Gatiss/Doyle.

CHAPTER TWO

“Perhaps we should have called ahead to make an appointment,” mutters John as the trio approaches a locked door to the small community gallery. “Can we catch another cab before someone decides my head would look great on their mantel?”

“This is the East End John,” Sherlock looks in the barred window before trying the door again. “People around here don’t have mantels. Besides your skull is too round, it would make a better candy dish.”

“Can’t believe you said that,” John muttered.

“Don’t worry, a fair number of my homeless network operate around here, we’ll be fine.”

“Pity I left my bag back at your apartment, I have a lock pick set in there,” Blackwell bends down to examine the handle. “Gift from my first boyfriend.”

“Interesting,” rolls Sherlock.

“He wasn’t.” Blackwell stands and swiftly kicks the door directly below the knob. The wood splinters and the door gives, but it doesn’t swing open. “Chain lock, shit.”

“Where did you learn to do that?” John says, thinking that he only knows one other person with the audacity to do that. Sherlock. Or himself, if Sherlock asked him to. 

“Standard training. Come on, I’m going to need some help to get this chain lock to budge. Mr. Holmes, kick in the center of the door. Dr. Watson, be prepared to catch one of us if we fall back and deliver medical attention if needed. Prepare for that one of us to be Mr. Holmes. Ready? One, two, three.”

Together, Agent Blackwell and Sherlock manage to snap the chain and the door swings open. Sherlock only stumbles a little bit, not needing medical attention. “That was easy,” says Sherlock.

“Oh sure, easy as pie.” Blackwell turns around. “I’m going to find the office.” She disappears into the dark of the room.

Sherlock begins walking towards the gallery space, occasionally glancing at the walls to determine where the location of the now-missing painting was.

“She’s strangely familiar, Agent Blackwell,” remarks John. “Almost like she looks like someone famous maybe?”

“Ah ha, here,” Sherlock stops in front of a blank area of the wall, completely ignoring John’s question. “There is a nail and small card that reads A Woman in Red. This is where it was.”

“It went missing days ago, why didn’t they hang something else?” John reads the card. “Painted by unknown American artist, portrait of young woman.”

By the light streaming from the large windows, Sherlock squats down and wipes his fingertips against the floor, bringing them up to his face and rubbing them together. “Dust. A place that won’t even replace a missing painting and of course they don’t do the sweeping on a daily basis. John, footprints. Look for prints.”

John turns around and looks at the floor. “There are dozens.”

“Pattern,” Sherlock stands and points. “See how the shoeprints all go in a general pattern passing this painting? None of them go closer than mine. The police didn’t bother dusting for prints.”

“Yes, but Sherlock,” John reaches his arms out towards the wall. “I couldn’t reach the painting without getting closer than the prints.”

Sherlock reaches his arms out and touches the wall. “I can. Agent Blackwell can tell us how big Flack is.”

“Unless it wasn’t Flack who took it. What if it was Moriarty?” John puts his arms down. “What if Agent Blackwell came all the way here to chase a ghost?”

“I’ve got a name,” Agent Blackwell walks quickly from the dark towards the men. “There was a bill of sale in the office, sitting in the copy machine. Must have made a copy for the police.” She   
holds the paper up to the light. “Sold to the gallery two months ago for three hundred pounds. Shit, no address. But I have a name.”

“What is it? Asks Sherlock.

“Ah…John Smith. Shit.” Blackwell crumples the paper and shoves it in her pocket. “Figures. Find anything?”

“Was Donald Flack a tall man?” Sherlock squats back down on the floor and searches the ground.

“Uhm, yes, tall…” Blackwell shifts her weight and crosses her arms. “Strong, broad shoulders, not heavy but not skinny. Uh, yes, tall.”

“His arms would be long enough to reach for the painting from this distance,” Sherlock replies. “No close tracks in the dust.”

“There’s no monitors in the office, so no CCTV. I need to talk to the people who run this place.” Blackwell nervously tucks her hands in her pockets, only to immediately pull them out.

“How are we going to convince the owners of the gallery to answer a few questions when we’ve already broken the door down?” John says, turning to Agent Blackwell. “See, this is why he needs me. And you need me too, apparently.”

“No need,” replied Sherlock. “And I don’t need you, you like this.”

“If they are this complacent about security chances are they don’t know much,” says Blackwell. “However, it would be worth a try, perhaps they saw someone who was overly interested in the painting. I saw a sign on the front window, they are having a gallery showing tomorrow night.”

“They won’t answer questions about at theft when the place is full of potential buyers,” John crosses his arms. “Goodness, it’s like dealing with two of you.”

“Two of who?” asks Sherlock, not paying attention to the conversation.

“We don’t come asking questions about at theft, we come asking questions about the art. The artists. We could pose as journalists wanting the details about the theft of the blood painting.” Blackwell says, reaching a hand to her forehead to wipe a slightly sheen of sweat.

“Wrong,” says Sherlock. “They may be more likely to expound upon the truth for the sake of free press.”

“Mr. Holmes, we can separate the truth from the sensational. I’m a federal agent, I’ve done this before.”

“This time would you please try to make your cover story more convincing?” Sherlock’s voice rolls.

“For the record,” Blackwell walks around the men, “I have done a total of one year, six months, four days and thirty six minutes undercover and only once has it ever been blown…by you.” She closes her eyes as if in pain, swallowing hard.

“Agent Blackwell,” John rushes to her side. “Are you alright?”

She nods before opening her eyes. “Yes, just a bit exhausted. The most sleep I’ve had since that painting was stolen was while waiting for the two of you. I need my bag.”

“Right, we should get you some sleep. We can take you to a hotel. A nicer neighborhood.” John pats her arm. “We can stop and get your bags from Sherlock’s flat, or at a chemist sooner if you need something now.”

“No time for that,” Blackwell smiles and stands a bit straighter, the sweat still glistening on her brow. “We need to find Flack. For all we know he has another girl, somewhere. Lot good a headache and exhaustion when there is a woman being bled to death. We can pick up my things, though. It would be nice to have my lockpick set just in case.”

“So where should we look? Sussex? No, he’s too smart for that, that would be the first place he knows we would look for him,” Sherlock answers his own question. “We need more to go on.”

“He doesn’t know you are looking for him, as far as he knows, the FBI thinks he’s gone. Dead or in jail for something else. My assistant director has been very clear about not actively pursuing him until there is more evidence, there are plenty of current cases with hotter leads.”

“Must be nice, to choose which serial killer to stop and which to let keep killing,” says John.

“It’s a hard job, what we do,” Blackwell replies. “Either we chase this one who we think we can catch now and risk the other one killing a few more in the meantime.”

“You are a criminal profiler,” states Sherlock. “I’ve seen the way your eyes read people. Pity.”

“Yes I am, and why the pity?” Blackwell turns towards the door, yelling over her shoulder. “You can deduce what people do, I can tell you why they do it, which I argue is the better of the two.”

“If it’s that much better, than why did you come to my flat?”

“Because, Mr. Holmes, your reputation precedes you.“ Blackwell continues to glance behind her as she walks through the gallery. “You know the little clues, you look for things that even seasoned agents don’t bother with. Your ability to see those physical clues are what I need to interpret what they are going to do. Not to mention that I haven’t lived in London for more than a few months at a time since I was about eleven, and you have connections. So, while I need you, my work is the stuff that will get them caught.”

“Seriously,” John whispers to Sherlock as they follow Blackwell out of the gallery. “Doesn’t she remind you of someone?”

Sherlock hums. “Someone, no. Something, yes. Annoying. Arrogant.”

“Exactly,” replies John, shaking his head.

When the men reach the street, they are greeted by an officer putting Agent Blackwell in the back of a car while another points a baton at them. “Hands in the air!”

John complies. “I’ve started to lose count how many times this has happened.”

“Well, if you count the stag night…”

“Can it, Sherlock.”

~

“Which one of you would like to explain what you were doing first?” Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sits behind his desk, with John, Sherlock, and Blackwell seated on the other side. “That will be all officer, thank you,” Lestrade nods to the officer who brought them in the room and he leaves.

“How did we miss a hidden alarm?” Blackwell turns to Sherlock, ignoring Lestrade’s question.

“There wasn’t one,” Sherlock says. “I don’t miss things that aren’t there.”

“Oh, well then,” Blackwell mouths in a mocking gesture.

“He’s right, the sod.” Lestrade stands up. “An old woman saw three people kicking the door down and called the police. Good think I have your name tagged in the booking system so if you are arrested I know about it immediately. Well, not me. Mycroft. And the Queen.” Lestrade turns to Blackwell. “Agent Dr. Eva Blackwell, I presume.”

She nods. “I see you had time to glance at my records.”

“Doctor?” asks John.

She nods. “Psychiatrist, specializing in behavioral science. Most of my doctoral research was on brain patterns predicting violent behavior. I studied sociopaths on the side, very fascinating.”

“It took them almost an hour to bring you here so I had the time,” Lestrade sits back on his desk in front of her. “Care to tell my why, when I called your assistant director to inquire about your identity, that he said you were not working a case?”

“I’m on leave, he wouldn’t pursue this one so I decided to go solo.”

“Hence why you hired Sherlock and didn’t ask for the assistance of local law enforcement. However, that’s not all he said.”

“Detective Inspector, what my director said has absolutely no bearing…”

“Suspension?”

Both John and Sherlock look to Eva. She takes a deep breath. “I’m not acting in official capacity and from what I gather Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are not officers so what difference does that make?”

“Sherlock Holmes is currently under the employ of the Queen searching for the most notorious criminal in all of England, the last thing we need is for him to get arrested breaking into small dirty galleries in the East End searching for some missing painting.” Lestrade stands. “Now give me one good reason I shouldn’t tell your director what you were found doing and have you sent right back to America.”

“Moriarty,” says Sherlock. “I believe the case is related to Moriarty.” He stands. “Its location was not publicized prior to the newspapers after it was stolen. I looked.”

“Well, isn’t this one big coincidence?” Blackwell asks. “You researching my case while I’m falling asleep in your flat waiting to hire you.”

“This morning. I was already looking into the case before your arrival. I found it odd that such a peculiar piece was to go missing, when much more valuable artwork was readily available. The painting in blood, I figure, was a message from Moriarty. The last time I saw him, his blood was pouring onto the roof.” 

Blackwell stands up. “Mr. Holmes, on the way back to your flat to fetch my things, you will fill me in on this Moriarty case.”

“That’s classified,” says Lestrade. “I should know, I’m one of the few who is permitted to know.”

“If Moriarty is involved in my case…”

“It’s not your case, you are on suspension.” Lestrade sits back behind his desk and picks up his phone. “If this is what you do on holiday, I can only imagine what you were put on suspension for. I’m calling your director. I’ll send a car to pick up your things and take you straight to the airport.”

“Gavin!”

“Greg.”

“Is that your name?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Agent Blackwell has information about Donald Flack that may be pertinent. She is a profiler, she knows Donald Flack’s case very well. Why else would she be here if she was not personally invested in the case?”

“Sherlock,” John says. “Is it possible Moriarty picked this painting simply because it’s done in blood, and knows nothing of the artists and his crimes? Is it possible this is a coincidence?”

“Anything involving Moriarty is not a coincidence,” Sherlock says before leaving the room.  
John turns to Lestrade. “You also know that you are authorized to give Sherlock anything he needs to track down Moriarty. If he wants Agent Blackwell…I mean, if he wants her to work with him…”

“Agent Blackwell,” Lestrade turns his attention back to her. “Look, if you promise to stop breaking into art galleries, I can keep my mouth shut regarding your assistant director. I’ll tell him you got a speeding ticket or something, you are on holiday afterall.”

Blackwell smiles. “Thank you, Detective Inspector.” Her eyes wink very subtly and she quickly bites her lip. “Greg Lestrade? Nice name.”

“Are you, do you, would you like to get a drink? Have a drink, with me? Get away from these guys for a little bit?” Lestrade smiles shyly. “I know Sherlock Holmes can be impossible if you spend too much time with him all at once, and I think Dr. Watson wants to get back home.”

“Detective Inspector, as much as I like to talk through a case over a few pints, it’s still rather early in the day.” Blackwell reaches for a pen on Lestrade’s desk, writing on a pad of paper next to his phone. “I wouldn’t mind taking you up on the offer if I am not busy later, in fact, I hope you call around seven.”

As Blackwell and John leave Lestrade’s office, John cannot help but laugh. “He just threatened to have you shipped back home for working under suspension, and you are going on a date with him?”

“Not really. I find it always to one’s advantage to keep locals happy. On my side, especially when he can send me home.” Blackwell smiles. “Besides, who is to say that I won’t have a little time for myself after we get Flack? I am on suspension. Now can we please get me my bag, I could vomit I feel so disgusting.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Blackwell’s mysteries deepen after her and Sherlock make a break in the case. Mary and John still can’t decide on a baby name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are really cooking now with the case, but it's going to be a few more chapters before anything 'sexy' happens. But I promise this series will have het sex and slash...whether or not they are real or character dreams.

CHAPTER THREE

When the trio arrive at Baker Street, Blackwell grabs her houndstooth bag and goes into the water closet without a word. John sits in his chair while Sherlock grabs his laptop and begins typing away.

“Sherlock, is this really about Moriarty?”

He doesn’t break his gaze, “It has to be. Now that he’s back not so much as a pocket gets picked unless he’s orchestrated it.”

“Sherlock, look, please don’t interrupt…”

“Where’s Blackwell?”

“SHERLOCK!” John smiles, knowing he did that on purpose. “You know I will help you with anything you need, but Mary…”

“I know, she could have little Sherlock anytime now,” he looks over to John. “I’m very happy for the three of you, of course I am. Don’t make me wax sentimental, but yes, go to her. We’ll probably spend the rest of the day looking for connections in the papers. I have Agent Blackwell to help on this one.”

“But Sherlock, she doesn’t know Moriarty.”

“But she isn’t about to become a father to a bouncing baby Sherlock Mary Watson.”

“We’ve already picked a middle name, but we are keeping that secret. It’s a family name.” John turns towards the door. “Please text me if something is urgent.”

Sherlock goes back to looking at the screen of his laptop and waves his hand in John’s direction, the gesture saying that he’s had enough emotion for the day. As John descends the stairs, Blackwell emerges from the water closet. “I feel better already, now, wait, where is Dr. Watson?”

“Left.”

“Why?” Blackwell peels off her sweater to reveal a form fitting red cotton shirt.

“To get ready for little Sherlock.”

She laughs, “So that’s what you call it? Ah, maybe I should go find a hotel now, let you two get back to your domestic bliss.”

“John’s very pregnant wife might resent said remark.”

“Oh, I though you two…well, that makes things more fun doesn’t it?” she peers over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at the computer screen. “Anyway, what do we do next? I just love this wallpaper, only in England can you get away with this. Tea, should I make tea?”

“I have tea,” Mrs. Hudson comes into the room and sets the tea service on the table. “Oh dear, are you feeling better?”

“Oh yes, much better.” Blackwell serves herself tea, no cream, no sugar.

“Sherlock this poor girl needs her rest, she flew all the way from the States last night, look at those circles,” Mrs. Hudson reaches towards Blackwell’s face. “Dear you can come have a rest in my flat.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Blackwell sips her tea. “But I’m fine now, really. We have work to do.”

“Cases to solve, women to free, paintings to find,” Sherlock continues typing.

“Dear, what did you say your name was, Mrs. Stone?”

“It’s Eva Blackwell, long story, Mrs…?”

“Hudson. I hate to be bothersome…”

“Too late,” murmurs Sherlock.

“But Eva, dear, you remind me of someone. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

“I’m sure, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the tea, that was very thoughtful.”

“Honestly, it is as if this painting didn’t even exist until it was stolen,” Sherlock mutters, an obvious frustrating lingering under his breath.

“Step aside, Mr. Holmes,” Blackwell arms her way to the keyboard despite Sherlock not moving an inch. “You just have to know where to look.”

“Serial Killers Ink?”

“Yes, this guy buys and sells anything related to any murder or note, see?” Blackwell points to the screen. “You can download Jeffery Dahmer’s full FBI confession for a mere two hundred dollars. I can get it for free, in fact I’m pretty sure I have a printed copy in my desk back at Quantico. You solve this and I’ll ship you a copy.”

“I’d be more interested in some spare body parts,” replies Sherlock. Blackwell pauses and faces him silently. “Experiments.”

Blackwell turns back to the computer. “I’m not seeing anything new on here,” Blackwell says. “Let me try another one.”

“There are more than one of these? Fascinating,” Sherlock leans in closer to the screen. “I wonder if I could get crime scene photographs.”

“I’m going downstairs,” Mrs. Hudson turns towards the door. “I don’t know why, but with her around, it’s almost like John is back.”

“Holy fuck,” gasps Blackwell. “There it fucking is.” On the screen emerges a scanned image of The Woman in Red. “How did the locals miss this?”

“Obviously you weren’t paying attention in Lestrade’s office,” Sherlock says. “Flack wouldn’t go through all the trouble of stealing his trophy if he just wanted to unload it.”

“Mr. Holmes, has it ever occurred to you that the person who is selling this painting might possibly have some information about how it was stolen from the gallery, or where the artist is? These true-crime nuts are obsessive. If it wasn’t for them…” Blackwell shakes off the rest of her thought. “Give me your wallet.”

“What for?”

She smiles at Sherlock. “Because you are going to buy me a painting.”

~

“Are they in position?” asks Blackwell.

Sherlock pockets his phone, “Just got a text, they are in position and ready to go.” Sherlock and Blackwell stand in front of a non-descript café a few blocks away from 221B, waiting for the seller of the painting to deliver their purchase. 

She takes his arm in hers, leans in and whispers, “You’ve figured it out.”

“That you are on a personal vendetta mission against Flack and that, if he were to arrive here, you would shoot him on sight regardless of the number of witnesses? That much is obvious.” Sherlock looks out into the street. “You were suspended for going outside of official channels, but this is the criminal that got away, and you don’t let them get away.” He smirks. “Like me.”

She laughs and stands up tall, not removing her arm. “You are right about the vendetta, me wanting to shoot him, but wrong about the suspension. Nice try, Mr. Holmes. I’ll make a behaviorial profiler out of you yet.”

A cab pulls up across the street in front. Both of them go silent as they see someone stepping out holding a large item under plastic—the size and shape of the painting. Blackwell visibly grips Sherlock’s arm a bit tighter, and he turns to look at her. “Give me your gun.”

She stars at the person emerging from the cab. “Not for all the tea in England.”

“Agent Blackwell…”

“Mr. Holmes,” she glances at him quickly. “What if I promise to keep it to a leg shot?”

Sherlock turns back, that sense of her familiarity returning. Who is this woman and why does he feel like he’s known her for years? “I’ve already let you fall asleep in my flat and bought you a painting, consider yourself spoiled. I’m not going to let you kill him too.”

“Don’t forget our first date, breaking and entering. Was it good for you?” Blackwell smiles, but Sherlock can feel her trembling. Her face is pale and her lighthearted demeanor isn’t fooling him—she’s terrified that Donald Flack might be the man stepping out of that cab.

The man holding the painting turns around, and Sherlock can feel Blackwell’s relief as her grip loosens on his arm, and finds himself missing it when she detaches and begins walking to the man. “You must be who we are meeting.”

The man is nondescript—brown hair, brown eyes, jeans and a jacket. There’s nothing special or unique about him, other than he’s carrying a trash bag in the shape of a painting. “Are you Sherlock Holmes?

“No, he’s coming now, I’m his girlfriend, Eva,” she shakes his hand. “This is a present to me. I’m obsessed with strange art and when I saw this I just had to have it.”

“My Eva gets what she wants,” Sherlock extends a hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Your credit card cleared, so here you are,” he hands the painting to Eva. 

She opens the corner of the bag. Both her and Sherlock peek inside to see the rusty image of Julia Stone staring back at them. What little color left in Blackwell’s face drains. She reaches a free hand to hear ear, the signal. The police descend, taking the seller into custody with no incident. Blackwell makes her way to the nearest curb, sitting down with the painting resting on her lap. She removes the rest of the plastic and stares at the portrait. 

“Name,” Sherlock says to the seller as he grabs the handcuffed man from Lestrade and pushes him against the car a little too hard. “YOUR NAME.”

“I’m, look some guy gave me a hundred bucks to bring this to you.”

“HIS NAME THEN.”

“Never said.”

Sherlock pulls his phone out, hits a few buttons, and shows the man an image of Moriarty. “WAS IT HIM?” The man shakes his head, breathing heavy. Sherlock hits a few more buttons and pulls up an image of Flack. “HIM?”

The man nods. “I think so, I mean, it could have been him. He was wearing a hat and shades but, the nose seems right.”

Sherlock lets the man go and walks down the street, yelling “LESTRADE!”

Lestrade runs after him. “Where to?”

“Watson. I need Watson.”

Blackwell is so absorbed in the painting that she doesn’t even notice that Sherlock and Lestrade and getting into a vehicle and leaving the scene.

~

Mary is seated on his couch eating whipped topping straight from the container while John takes her pulse from her free wrist. “John, it was just a few contractions, perfectly normal.”

“Do you feel weak or…”

“Really John, I’m carrying around another human being, I’m always feeling weak.”

Sherlock and Lestrade walk into their home without knocking the door and quickly make their way into the sitting area. “John.”

“Sherlock, Mary might be in labor…”

“I’m not in labor!” She smiles at Sherlock. “Hello love! John tells me you said no to Beatrice?”

“Of course I did it’s terrible.”

“What about Trisha? Danni? Sianna? I love that,” she turns to her husband. “Sianna Henrietta Watson.”

Sherlock tilts his head. “Henrietta? Oh the secret family name?”

“Oh, didn’t he tell you?” Mary asks. “It’s a long story, but he has, well, had, a…”

“Not right now, Mary,” John says with a slightly reprimanding tone.

Lestrade turns to John. “We just apprehended a man attempting to sell the missing painting. He identified Flack. ”

John dips his head before standing up, hands on his hips. “So what does this have to do with Moriarty?”

“Moriarty!” Mary smiles. “I know, I know, evil man, strapped a bomb to your chest, all that. But I love that name.”

“No.” Sherlock and John respond in unison. Sherlock starts pacing the room. “Still no connection other than the obvious, that Moriarty controls all the crime in London.”

“Where’s Eva?” John asks.

“Oooo, Eva, I like that,” says Mary.

Sherlock looks behind him. “Isn’t she here?”

Lestrade shakes his head. “She’s at the crime scene. I figured since she didn’t follow you that she wasn’t coming.”

“Sherlock, did you just expect that she would know enough to follow you?” John sits back down.

“Go get her,” Mary says. “Not fair to leave her there. Sounds like from what John said that she’s really shaken up. John you go with.”

“I’m not leaving…”

“I swear if you keep hovering over me I’ll induce labor just to get away from you!” Mary laughs. “Go, I will call you if anything happens. I promise.”

~

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade arrive at Baker Street to see Blackwell sitting on the floor legged crossed in front of the painting. She’s put her jumper back on, and curled her arms around her torso. There’s fresh tea next to her, probably courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, but it’s been untouched. Her hair looks wind-whipped, and she hasn’t bothered to tuck the loose strands behind her ears.

“Agent Blackwell?” asks John.

“I…” she whispers. “I can’t believe I finally found it.”

Sherlock kneels down next to her. A bit close, John notices. He glances to Lestrade he seems to have noticed as well. “It’s real blood.”

“Of course it is. I’m not you but I’m not an idiot,” she says, keeps her voice low and even. “We need to run DNA to determine if it belongs to Julia Stone. Shit…” Blackwell reaches out and touches the cheek of the portrait lightly. “It’s her. I haven’t seen her since…” she trails off.

“We can take it to the department,” interjects Lestrade. “I can have Anderson…”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock grabs the painting and stands up. “We’re going to St. Bart’s.”

Blackwell stares at the floor where the painting was. “Why, I already know.”

“What if it’s a fake?” asks John.

“It’s not, this is his style. Near photographic quality. It’s…it’s him.” She closes her eyes. “It’s him.”

John walks to her and helps her stand. “Let’s be sure. Come on.” The urge to hold her returns when he sees her face—its solid like stone. Pale, with the telltale sign of crying written in her eyes. “Are you alright? Medically, I mean?”

“My bag,” she says. “Let’s not forget that this time.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: The painting is not what it seems, and neither is Agent Blackwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but one that really gets into the big plot component of this and the next two “episodes.” I don't like how this chapter worked out but it's meant to reveal a LOT of plot and every time I messed with it I cocked it up. 
> 
> I know that Sherlock’s personality may not be true to the personally in canon, but there is a very good reason for that and it will be revealed—it’s intentional.

“She’s pretty,” says Molly Hooper to John as she puts a small vial of liquid into a centrifuge. “I swear I’ve met her before.”

“Right?” John leans in closer. “I can’t put a finger on it. But what I do know is that Sherlock, he’s not quite himself.”

“Moriarty,” Molly whispers. “He even has me carrying mace and looking over my shoulder.”

“I can get you into the American databases when you are ready,” Blackwell approaches the pair. “I highly doubt his DNA would be in whatever the good Detective Inspector has access to. We should still try,” she turns around to make eye contact with him. “We should.”

He smiles dumbly at her. “Yes, well, whatever you think is best. Say, I’m going to fetch some tea. Care to join me?”

She smiles. “I wish I could, but I need to find Sherlock, I have to ask him about the research he was doing this morning. Where is he?”

“I saw him take a shears into the morgue,” piped in Molly. “Probably trying to steal body parts, I’ll have to make sure he doesn’t leave with anything from Sam Anders.”

“Right, thank you Miss Hooper,” Blackwell replies.

Agent Blackwell leaves the lab and quickly finds the stairs. She walks up three flights before finding a door that says CHEMIST & BILLING. She slips through the door and walks down the hall until she finds a waiting area and a chemist window. Seeing nobody in line, she tucks her hair behind her ears and walks up to the window. “Excuse me?”

“Yes, ma’m, how can I help you?” An older man approaches the window.

“Yes, I’m Dr. Eva Blackwell,” she flashes her FBI credentials. “I’m currently working with Molly Hooper on a mysterious death and we need to run a few tests on chemical compounds. She gave me this,” Blackwell removes a white slip of paper from her pocket. 

The chemist takes and examines it. “A requisition form for dilaudid, injectable.” He sighs. “Is Sherlock Holmes working this case? She normally wouldn’t request anything from me during a post otherwise.”

“How did you know?” Blackwell laughs. “Well, I suppose he is a character isn’t he?”

“I adore that Miss Hooper, but she really is thick when it comes to that man. Still thinks he’ll fall in love with her in the end,” the chemist sighs. “What concentration?”

“I assume the highest. Less waste, it could be diluted if needed,” Blackwell says. “She also mentioned she was out of 22 gauge needles, I guess not much call for needles that don’t leave huge holes in the morgue.”

The man nods, takes the paper and goes into the back shelving to search for the materials. Blackwell looks around, noticing that the one security camera point to the counter doesn’t not have a red light on. She knows she should have checked security earlier, but she had to take the opportunity. She reaches a hand into her travel bag to feel for the syringes she pocketed from Molly’s lab---along with the official requisition tablet---while she and Dr. Watson were extracting samples from the painting.

“This better work…” she whispers to herself.

The chemist returns. “We don’t use this much anymore, most patients respond better to morphine, so I can give you a whole bottle,” he hands Blackwell the vial and a packet of needles. “Tell Miss Hooper to come up here and join me for tea one of these days.”

“I will, thank you so much for your assistance.” Blackwell nods goodbye as she leaves the counter. 

She waits until she is in the elevator and has hit the button that says it will take her back downstairs before she slips the vial and needles into her bag.

~

“No, no no,” Sherlock mutters at the cold body on the slab of metal in front of him. “Your toes just will not do. Too bent, too arthritic. Who gets arthritic toes?” He covers the man’s feet with a sheet and moves onto the next.

Agent Blackwell opens the door and walks into the room. “Miss Hooper said I would find you here,” she says. “What are you looking for?”

“Toes,” he replies without looking up. “I need toes.”

“What for?” she says with no shock in her voice.

“I need to determine what types of chronic footwear lead to toe maladies and skeletal distortions. A person’s footwear can be of utmost importance, particularly in body identification…”

“You can help make an ID based on the person’s clothing of choice, know about what they did, perhaps determine an occupation,” Blackwell finishes, now standing on the opposite side of a body as Sherlock. “What else do you know about this painting?”

“I know it all.” Sherlock moves to the next body and pulls back the sheet, exposing the feet. “AH HA! Perfect! Hand me that…” he points to what looks like a pruning shears.

“Tell me,” Blackwell challenges, holding the shears. “Or I’ll take something from you for my own experimentation.”

“What could you possibly need from me?”

“I haven’t had a date in nearly two years. It’s a bit difficult to talk about what I do for a living.”

Sherlock stares in her eyes. “For someone joking about removing my phallus, you are surprisingly small pupils. If you were at all interested in my phallus, your eyes would be dilated.”

“Just joking? And why are you staring at my eyes? Are you hoping I do other things with your…” she uses the shears to gesture to his crotch.

“You remind me of someone, like I’ve met your father or mother.”

“I don’t remember my father, he was killed in a car accident, my mother drank herself to death about seven years ago. Still in the states, last I heard.” Blackwell smirks. “Now, the painting.”

“I know it’s just as much a message to you as it is to me. I know that Flack is trying to get the one that got away. I know that during your previous investigation that he had kidnapped you, knocked you out, and then dumped you halfway across town, purposely leaving clues to make you think he was holding Julia Stone somewhere else. He’s intelligent and he likes to flaunt it, but he also knows his limits. He knows that he won’t fool you again, but he also knows you have a weakness, this case. He doesn’t know London, so he needed help. Who better to go to than the world’s only consulting criminal? Lucky for him, he’s freshly out of retirement. Flack stole the painting, Moriarty is a smaller man and would not have been able to reach the painting without stepping closer to the wall. When I questioned the seller, he did not identify Moriarty but he did think that Flack looked like the man who asked him to deliver the painting—the whole exchange took place on a sidewalk just minutes before he got into the taxi. I know that Flack will attempt to get close to you, to get your blood for your portrait. Moriarty will convince him to use someone else, a hired hand, but that won’t do for him. He’ll want to feel your blood himself. But it won’t happen like it did before. Now,” Sherlock holds out his hands. “The shears.”

“You are so confident that you are right,” Blackwell moves over towards Sherlock, not dropping eye contact. “I did make a mistake, a really stupid mistake. He drugged my tea in my own home. He took me.” She looks down, her expression wavering for just a moment. “Perhaps you are right about this Moriarty, and you are right that Flack will come back for me himself, but I won’t let him.”

“We.”

“We?”

“John and I, we won’t let him.” Sherlock inches closer, drawing a hand up and gently resting it on her elbow. “I won’t let him get you.” Sherlock moves away from Blackwell quickly, as if he just realized how close he was to a strange woman. Too intimate, yet it felt comfortable. In fact, most of his interactions with her have been too intimate. He doesn’t like this.

Blackwell moves her eyes up, leaving her head slightly bowed. “I’ll leave your phallus alone.” In one swift move she opens the shears and applies them to the foot of the corpse in front of them, removing the big toe. She hands Sherlock the toe. “For now.”

The doors slam open and Lestrade bounds in. “We are ready for your access codes.”

~

“There,” Blackwell stands up from the keyboard. “Now you just have to upload the DNA sequence and run for matches.” Molly takes her place at the computer. Blackwell steps back in between John and Lestrade. “Oh, and don’t even try to look up anything about JFK, you’ll be sorely disappointed that there is no second gunman.”

“Here,” Lestrade hands Blackwell a paper cup of tea. “Still warm.”

“Thank you,” she smiles warmly and accepts. “Detective Inspector…”

“Greg.”

“Greg. Can you recommend a hotel nearby? Someplace with good security.”

“Nonsense you will stay at Baker Street,” Sherlock says, looking over at them. “Not alone, not with Flack trying to get you.”

“What makes your flat safe compared to a hotel room with one door and two locks?”

“I’ve made arraignments.”

Lestrade looks to Blackwell with concern. “He’s after you?”

She nods. “Yes, but I’m a big girl with a big gun, I could take care of myself.”

“You couldn’t last time,” Sherlock remarks.

Blackwell stepped back just a fraction of an inch and looked intently at the cup in her hands. Sherlock could tell his remark stung, and surprisingly, he cared enough to soften his face. Yes, he just got the reaction that confirmed a hypothesis he had yet to share with anyone, but he recognizes a reaction John would have in her expression. He hurt her. As he opened his mouth to apologize, a sound came from the computer.

“We got something,” Molly says. She clicks on an icon and Blackwell’s face appears, alongside a picture of Julia Stone. “There are two samples, positively identified as the victim…and Agent Blackwell.” Everyone in the room turns to look at her. She stares over Molly’s shoulder at the computer screen. “That means your blood is on the painting too, Agent.”

“Eva,” John crosses his arms over his chest. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“I’m not Flack’s accomplice, if that’s what any of you are thinking.”

“He didn’t just kidnap you, did he?” Sherlock moves closer to her.

She shakes her head. “He did, he must have taken some blood while I was…”

“Stop. Stop making excuses and tell me what I need to know.”

She looks to Sherlock. “You stop. Just because you can read clues doesn’t mean you know me. No matter how ‘familiar’ I seem.” Her jaw almost shakes. “I need to use the restroom.” Agent Blackwell storms out of the lab and down the hallway. With no words, John follows after her.

~

“Eva?” John steps cautiously into the women’s lavatory after giving her a couple of minutes. “Eva, its Dr. Watson, are you alright?”

“Please leave me,” she says from behind the closed door of the stall furthest from the door. “I’ll be just a moment.”

She only had enough time to get out the vial, the needle and the syringe. As she hears Dr. Watson’s steps move closer, she quietly opens the packaging to the needles and twists one onto the end of the syringe. She’s shaking. There is a reason he took this specific painting—this is the one he used her blood on. 

_“I told you not to close your eyes,” Flack storms across the room, his heavy footsteps a mere background noise to the crying of Julia Stone. He grabs Eva’s eyelids, pressing them up towards her brow and affixing them with superglue. “There, now you have to watch.”_

She steadies her arm on the small disposable bin on the wall of the stall before finding the vein. No time to tie off. She feels the dilaudid rush into her body, mentally willing it to her brain as fast as possible.

_He positions the pail under the table, under the makeshift drain he made by cutting a hole at Julia’s feet. Eva can’t blink, she can’t make it stop. She’s powerless. Her eyelids are so heavy, the pail at her feet filling too fast. Flack turns to see Eva struggling to close her eyes. “Oh no,” he moves towards her, carefully holding his palm over the cut he made in her wrist. “I can’t let you bleed out yet, there is so much to see.”_

“Dr. Watson, I’ll be out in a minute,” she mumbles.

“I’m sorry about for what Sherlock said. I’ll just wait outside.”

She can remember everything he did next. She can feel the warm blood. She can almost taste the smell of punctured bowel as she watches him remove it from Julia’s body. But the drug coursing through her veins is beginning to put a haze around the edges.

She hopes she didn’t take too much. She’s not at home on her couch trying to get a few hours sleep, she needs to stay lucid for now.

~

The silence they left behind lingers for only a few seconds, when it’s broken by a chime from the computer. Molly turns back to the keyboard.

“There’s a familial match—a sibling match---to Agent Blackwell, in the system. In the Scotland Yard system. It’s…” Molly goes silent.

On the computer screen, a picture of Dr. John Watson appears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Blackwell learns she isn’t who she thinks she is, and Sherlock finds himself drawn even closer to the familiar stranger.

After five minutes determines that she didn’t take too much, Agent Blackwell steps out of the lavatory to see Dr. Watson standing across the hall waiting for her. “I’m a doctor, Agent Blackwell.” He looks at her with stern concern. “You have more than jetlag.”

“I’ll be okay. I’ve had this borderline cold for weeks. Too much stress.”

John and Blackwell turn in step side by side on their way back to the lab. “You know, Agent Blackwell…”

“Eva. Call me Eva, uhm, yes, Eva, like you did back there. With everyone looking at me like they know me, might as well.”

“Eva. I’m sorry for Sherlock. He doesn’t exactly have good social skills.”

“It’s fine. I studied sociopaths in medical school for fun.” She laughs. “For fun, rrrrright?” She slurs. “I found myself preferring their company. In fact, I even dated a few. No bullshit. Everything was so black and white. It’s refreshing. For a while, I thought I was one. Besides, Sherllllock knows more than he’s letting on.”

“Eva, let me take you upstairs and give you a checkup, I have privileges here, or we could find a female doctor if you’d prefer.”

“No, I’m fine. Headache, tired, and stressed. I haven’t eaten all day, taking ibuprofen on nothing. That’s all.”

“Once this DNA is run I’ll ensure you get a proper meal. And some sleep.”

The two enter Molly’s lab to find Lestrade talking on the phone in low tones, slipping past them and out of the room, Molly going back to the painting to extract another sample from the   
painting, and Sherlock preparing two blood tests. “Both of you, sit down. Roll up your sleeves.”

“Why?” asks John.

“Blackwell’s DNA came back as having a sibling match. We are going to run a completely separate DNA test. Molly thinks it must be cross contamination. The painting was at Baker Street, you lived there. A skin cell could have ended up on the painting.”

“Sherlock, a skin cell would have come back as a third sample, not a familial match, besides, what is my DNA doing in any system?” John sits, staring into the room, robotically rolling up his sleeve. “Wait, why am I being tested?”

“Mycroft. Do you really think he wouldn’t have taken a DNA sample from you as soon as he could get it?” Sherlock begins to apply the tie off and look for the vein. 

“Sherlock…” John says.

“Have you done this before?” asks Blackwell.

“I used to shoot up heroin, I think I can find a vein,” Sherlock sticks the needle in John’s arm, removes the tie, and the tube begins to fill with blood. “See?”

“SHERLOCK. WHY AM I BEING TESTED?”

Sherlock stills and looks up at John throw his hair. “The match came back to you.”

Blackwell stares at John, examining his features. Grey eyes, round face. Maybe it wasn’t a false test. “This is ridiculous. I have no siblings. John, you?”

“I was born a twin, but she died at birth, stillborn.” He breaks his gaze with the floor and looks up at her. “Dead.”

Sherlock slowly withdraws the needle and applies a cotton swab and bandage to his arm. “Henrietta?”

“Mum only talked about her a few times, once when I was fifteen, again about eight years ago. On her deathbed. Said she regretted never being able to raise Henrietta, missing her every day.” John stands and shakes his head. “Henrietta died at birth, she is not Henrietta Watson.”

Blackwell takes John’s seat and holds out her arm. She starts to roll up her sweater before she remembers what she just did and moves to the other arm. “I…I would have found out when the FBI did my full background check. They even try to find out the name of your preschool imaginary friend.”

Sherlock pokes her with the needle. “We’ll run it again.”

“You and I both know that it will come out the same, a familial match. Could this be Moriarty?”

Sherlock finishes his draw. “Molly, text me with the results. I called in for assistance, we are going to Baker Street.”

~

It’s dark, and at some point while they were at St. Bart’s, it rained. The lights reflect off the water on the street. The cab is moving too fast and too slow for the occupants inside. They’ve been silent since entering and it isn’t until they are a block from Baker’s Street that the silence breaks.

“Sherlock, I have to go home to Mary,” John says. “It’s nearly eight at night.”

“John, you act like…”

“I act like a man with a wife days from giving birth who is the victim of a computer error.” He turns to Blackwell. “It’s not that you aren’t a perfectly…I just, you just. You can’t be her.”

Blackwell doesn’t stop her gaze from the window. “No offense taken. It’s not as if I know how to handle this either.”

The cab stops in front of 221B, Sherlock and Blackwell step out. “John, if you need to go home I understand.”

“Well no, no you don’t.” John smiles tightly at Sherlock. “Sorry, I will. Send me a text when you hear from Molly? Eva,” he looks to her. “If this turns out to be true, please don’t leave without talking to me.”

She smiles at him. “Of course.”

“Make sure she gets some food, and last I checked my old bed isn’t made up so find some sheets for her, Sherlock.” The cab door closes, taking John back home to Mary.  
Blackwell and Sherlock walk up the stairs in silence. Sherlock opens the door and gestures Blackwell through first. She takes a seat in John’s chair, her hands reaching into her bag and clutching something inside, but not removing it.

“What would you like?” Sherlock sits in the chair opposite.

“What?” She looks up, removing an empty hand from her bag.

“I don’t eat working on a case, but I can order takeaway for you.” He pulls out his phone. “What would you like?”

“Surprise me,” she says blankly.

“John likes thai.” Sherlock hits a few numbers and puts the phone to his ear. As he orders, he watches Blackwell set her bag down and walk back towards the bathroom. No sooner does he end the call does he hear retching from down the hall.

He pushes open the unlatched bathroom door to find Blackwell hugging the toilet bowl, dry heaving. He leans down and tucks her hair behind her ears. Why is he being so uncharacteristically…human? He would only do something like this for one person. John. Is it because now, that familiar look, her mannerisms, reminded him of John, his only friend? Was he taking care of Blackwell because John has been absent, taking care of Mary? Sherlock shakes the thought. He suppresses the urge to wash his hand.

“Morphine?” Sherlock asks quietly. “Unless you are pregnant or have the flu.”

Blackwell shakes her head. “Vicodin. Morphine…whatever I can get. Heroin on a few occasions when I thought my scripts were being monitored by the assistant director.”

“What did you take today? This morning, when you needed your bag?”

“My last three Vicodin.”

“Withdrawal?”

“No, not really, I’ve only been back on anything I can get for the past few days.” She shakes her head. “I stole some more at the hospital while you were searching for toes.”  
He stands and reaches out a hand. “I suppose I should get you a glass of water.”

She accepts his hand and stands shakily. She follows him to the living room and sits back in John’s chair. Sherlock brings her a glass of water, which she drinks greedily. “Mr. Holmes, I lied.”

“Obviously.” He sits across from her, tenting his fingers at his chin. “You’ve been holding a lot from me, Agent Blackwell. Flack did something to you that you haven’t told me. The way you dropped back when I remarked on your inability to take care of yourself, the way you almost went into a trace when you saw the painting.”

“Flack took me, and I told everyone I was out the whole time, but I remember it all.” She looks at her bag on the ground. “Drugs don’t make it go away, at least not today. I haven’t taken enough, I can’t take more than I am or I won’t be able to work the case. But it does make it fuzzy, make it dull. Make the day somewhat manageable. Makes the nightmares fuzzy too.”

“He’s coming back for you. Why?”

She looks at him. “I woke up in that warehouse. He tortured me. Cigarette burns on my thighs, beating me. He would use a Taser on me and then cup my cheek in his hand and whisper apologies in my ear. He raped me, I can’t count the number of times. At times it was perfunctory. Other times brutally violent. The worst was when he would tell me how beautiful I was, he would try to arouse me. As if it was romantic.”

“You knew he took your blood.”

“He cut my wrist, held it over a bucket. When he let me go, I went home, found some clothes not covered in blood, bandaged myself up best I could, and staged my kidnapping. I had to hide a broken collar bone for almost two days afterwards before I could sneak away to a hospital. Lied to everyone about what really happened, pretended I was alone the whole time. I made sure someone found me knocked out, alone, unharmed.” She swallows and reaches down for her bag. “Please, don’t make me remember this.”

“You already are.” 

“To you, the words I say are facts. I can feel them. His breath on my ear, the smell of blood. The way it felt when he superglued my eyelids to my brow so I couldn’t avoid watching him torture Julia Stone…” she trails off. “Almost got acetone in my eyes trying to remove the glue. We just met this morning, I don’t even know you. Why am I telling you things that I have never even spoken aloud?”

Sherlock reaches for the bag and pulls it from her. He puts a hand inside and pulls out the vial, reading the label before pocketing it. He hands her the bag. “Because you respect my honesty. You know I’m a sociopath, you need objectivity. You know I used to use heroin. You don’t want to use drugs, and you have been waiting for someone to take them away from you for a long time. You knew I would.”

“I don’t want you to take it, I need it. I’m not going to be able to get through this without it. Please,” she reaches a hand out. “You must understand. You took heroin for a reason, right? You are not my keeper.”

Sherlock is jolted by the phrase. Had he said the same thing to Mycroft at some point? He removes the vial from his pocket and hands it back to her. “I’m not, but please don’t overdose in my flat. Lestrade would be impossible to work with and I can’t promise I won’t harvest your toes.”

“Are you charming me because you are hoping I will give you the last detail you need for the case, or was I wrong about you being a sociopath?”

“You weren’t wrong. Lestrade obviously fancies you and dealing with him after his wife left was difficult enough, I should hate to have to work with him moping around after your death. I still only have one toe, not nearly enough subjects for my experiment.”

“About Flack, why he is coming back. I was different. I was part of his evolution.”

Sherlock tilts his head. He’s about to ask further when he looks to the door.

~

“My God,” Mary whispers, her head setting on John’s chest. The couple lay in bed, the room dark, blankets off because Mary felt too hot. “I can’t believe it. Do you think it’s…”

“Moriarty? Playing his tricks, his games? I apparently am Sherlock’s greatest weakness,” he sighs. “It would explain why everyone felt she was so familiar. He somehow extracted blood from Blackwell and planted it on the painting, I don’t see how. She’s familiar with Moriarty somewhat, so should would know if she had met him before.”

“If it is true, and she is Henrietta, what are you going to do?”

“Talk. I suppose it’s only right to try to get to know her, tell Harriet. To be honest, it would be nice to have a sibling that actually wants to speak with me. That is, if Eva wants to.”

“Can I meet her? Tomorrow, can I meet her? Even if she wants nothing to do with you, I want to see her.” Mary holds John just a little tighter. “I won’t even let on that you told me, I could pretend I’m going to Sherlock’s to baby proof the flat for future visits or something. We could bring coffee and tea and pastries or something.”

“You shouldn’t travel.”

“Maybe a trip will finally put me in labor and I can get her out. If running up those steps gets it going, I’d go do it right now. I think she bruised my ribs today with her football practice.” Mary yawns. “Now that we finally have a name, I’m ready to meet her.”

“But Sherlock dropped the watermelon twice,” John smiles into the night. It felt good to feel some levity. “Perhaps we should have focused on that before a name.”

“What?”

“Sherlock’s been practicing holding a baby by using melons, apparently. I’m honestly surprised, I thought we’d have to beg him to even look at her.”

“John, honestly, you should know better.” Mary rolls off John’s chest and onto her other side, facing the wall. “He does love you. You are practically his brother. He even cares about me to the extent that I’m important to you.”

“Nonsense, he adores you. You two get along so well.”

“He only tolerates me because you forgave me. He hasn’t. Mary sighs. “Either way, tomorrow morning I’m going to meet your sister and you are going to tell Sherlock that we decided on a name.”

“No, he’ll disapprove and I don’t want to fight him on it. Goodnight love.”

John’s not so sure if he wants Mary to meet Eva, but he knows better than to stop her.

~

“Sherlock,” Mycroft strolls into the room. “How are you?”

“Did you get what I asked?”

Mycroft hands his brother a file. “The hospital John was born in had several babies abducted within the six months surrounding his birth. Apparently they found a nurse and doctor were stealing and selling the babies for black market adoptions. Surprisingly common around that time, almost no security in hospitals back then.” Mycroft turns to look at Blackwell. “You look like him.”

“You are?” she asks.

“Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother.”

“I asked Mycroft to do some searching. Let’s just say he can get just about any intelligence from anyone. He basically runs Britain and just lets the Royal family think they are in charge for fun.”

“So I was stolen?” she asks.

“It would appear that the day after your birth and alleged death, a family in Manchester suddenly got shot up the waiting list for a child and brought you home. Miriam and Anderson Blackwell. However, a week after the arrival of their daughter, they had removed themselves from the waiting list.”

“Black market,” Blackwell sighs. “In America, even now, the black market for Caucasian babies is big. Women are meeting pregnant women online and cutting babies out of them in cheap motel rooms, sometimes for as little as ten thousand dollars.”

“I tried to track down your parents to find further evidence, but…”

“My father died when I was three. Car accident in London. Mom drank herself to death seven years ago.” She turns to Mycroft. “Mr. Holmes, how much did I cost?”

“I can’t say, this nurse dealt strictly with cash and didn’t seem to deposit it, but some bank records were never transferred to electronic storage so I have yet to find it. I’ll keep looking if that’s what you’d like.” Mycroft turns to Sherlock. “How is John dealing with the news?”

“Denial. He went home to Mary.” There is a knock at the door and Sherlock stands to answer it.

Mycroft turns to Blackwell. “Your birth certificate didn’t have a name. It was signed by the doctor, meaning you weren’t stillborn. He must have lied to your mother, having chosen you. Perhaps he and the nurse thought that if they kidnapped a twin, the family would still have a child to bring home. If you are wondering, he died from heart failure seventeen years ago. The nurse about ten years ago from cancer.”

Blackwell stands and shakes Mycroft’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Did you implement my other requests?” Sherlock returns with a plastic bag of takeaway, handing it to Blackwell.

“I did, Agent Blackwell, “he turns to her. “You have been granted clearance to work on this case and to access information about Jim Moriarty as it pertains to your investigation.” He turns back to Sherlock. “Do you want interior cameras?”

“No, exterior should suffice. I need security for John and Blackwell, not a babysitter.”

“There are agents nearby who can respond within two minutes.” Mycroft nods. “Agent Blackwell, until we meet again.”

She nods and watches him leave before opening the Styrofoam container in her lap. She grabs the plastic fork contained in the plastic bag and picks at the meal in her lap. “You asked your brother to divert Royal security to protect me?”

“We must work. I need your profile, details about previous murders. I need case files. You should download what you can before your assistant director decides to suspend your electronic access.”

“However shall I repay you?” She takes a small bite, chews, and swallows. “Oh right, human toes and crime scene photos. I was supposed to go out with the Detective Inspector for drinks tonight.”

“You fancy him in return? He’s an idiot.”

Blackwell swallows another bite. “An idiot who is about to call my assistant director. I was put on medical leave when I showed up to a case briefing obviously high. That time it was heroin, I bought it on the way to the briefing and shot up in a bathroom at a coffee shop. He said if I got help and stayed clean for six months, he’d let me come back.”

“When did you stop the first time?”

“I stopped during the day, taking only enough of whatever I had to keep the nightmares from feeling too real. You were right, I don’t want to use.” She looks around. “So, now that we know my blood in on that painting, it’s obvious that Flack stole it for the sole purpose of teasing me out of my home turf. He knew I would get my hands on it. He knew I would test it just to be sure.”

“But where is he?” Sherlock sits in front of his laptop, air typing above the keyboard.

“He will want to watch me before he tries anything.” Blackwell sets her half-eaten meal down. “The gallery. He’ll expect that I will be at the opening because I will expect him to be there.”

“Too simple. He let you live just to watch you at a gallery opening? He’ll be watching, true, but he won’t actually be there.” Sherlock begins typing. “He hired someone to be his eyes with the painting today, he’ll do the same at the gallery. You should go, call his bluff, but it’s not how we will find him. Blackwell?” Sherlock turns around.

Eva Blackwell is asleep in John’s chair.

Sherlock stands up and gently coaxes, half carries, Blackwell to his room. He slips off her shoes before laying her on his bed. He supposes that should he ever be called upon to watch the child of John and Mary, that he should learn to do such things. Chances are they’d rather leave the infant home alone playing with knives than put her in the care of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock would have to admit that the knives would probably be a better choice.

She is beautiful, he thinks. It’s not the first woman he’s had in his bed, there was Janice. She wasn’t beautiful like Blackwell. Not that she was unattractive. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant to fall asleep with a warm body next to his. Even though he had taken sex off the table almost immediately due to a fudged ‘old fashioned family value,’ there was something physically arousing in her kisses. Her physical proximity. He lied to her, she never would have stayed so close otherwise. Perhaps the reason he didn’t take advantage of Janice is because he couldn’t have her the way he wanted. It would have broken his cover. She would have left him. 

Perhaps its Blackwell’s vulnerability she showed to him, a strange trust in a complete stranger within a day. That must be what he’s feeling. He’s felt this way before, it’s not a trait unique to her. John killed a man to save his life within days of knowing him. Maybe it’s a family trait. Sherlock’s mind runs through emerging twin research demonstrating personality similarities amongst twins separated at birth. Decidedly it’s an area he’ll need to research further.

Sherlock does to the living room and gets her three bags, gently setting them on the floor at the foot of the bed. He reaches into her carry on and removes the vial. John wouldn’t want her to have that any more than he wants Sherlock to have it. He looks down at Blackwell before turning off the light and closing the door behind him. He could never have her, not in the way that he wants. John spoiled him—he was good at being alone until John came along. Now he shudders at the thought, keeping all the lights on at night so he doesn’t have to confront his feelings that lurk in the shadows.

Besides, these inconvenient feelings will pass by morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise some action---Chapter 6 is heavy on the case. Chapter 7 is action. I'm working on Chapter 8 now. We are going to get some John's inner thoughts soon too to balance Sherlock's.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Sherlock makes the connection between Flack and London, and it does not bode well for Agent Eva Blackwell.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the room and slowly spins around in place. Surrounding him are newspapers with articles circled in red, printouts of internet articles, some featuring the face of Ronald Flack. Sherlock examines each item for a moment before moving to the next.

“Good morning,” Blackwell emerges from the back of the flat. She’s wearing red plaid pattern cotton pants, a ribbed purple athletic top, and Sherlock’s grey robe. “Your bed is quite nice.”

“Thank you,” he says, glancing at her. “You are wearing my robe.”

“I woke up in the middle of the night after a nightmare, only to find that you took my dilaudid. You were standing right there were you are now, staring at papers on the floor, so I took it upon myself to find towels and took a shower.” She settles down in John’s chair. “I drifted in and out of sleep for a while after that. I did search for your stash.”

“Why would you assume I have a stash of illegal drugs in my room?”

“You don’t?”

“I got rid of it last week, wanted to start making sure there’s nothing John and Mary’s baby could get into.” Sherlock turns back to the papers on the floor. “Flack has to have used the services of Moriarty, but there are no clues, none. Now the painting was mentioned in an American newspaper shortly after Flack had kidnapped you and killed Julia stone saying that The Sussex Vampire, who painted portraits of his victims in their own blood, did not have time to paint one for Julia Stone because federal agents had disrupted him and forced him to make a hasty getaway.”

“So how does this painting show up in London if it supposedly does not exist?” Blackwell asks. “And why? This is why I hired you.”

“That’s where Moriarty comes in. Of all the places in the world, why would the painting appear in London? Why would Flack travel all the way here just to set a trap for you?”  
“Well, it can’t be to escape American Agents,” Blackwell stands up and moves towards the kitchen, raising her voice the further away she gets. “When it comes to serial killers, The Yard has a history of cooperation with US agents.”

“You was raised in Manchester,” Sherlock says, “Perhaps he’s bringing you back home?”

“I’ve spent most of my adult life in America, but I suppose I would still have a slight advantage over him in London. If he was really trying to put me off, he would pick somewhere else.” Blackwell opens cupboard after cupboard, searching for tea. She finds a tin, opens it and smells its contents before gagging and putting it back.

Sherlock continues to turn. “He would need Moriarty, which is the penultimate upper hand.”

“Assuming you are the ultimate upper hand?” Blackwell replies quietly to herself. Defeated from the task of making tea, she returns to the sitting room. “Did you get a message from Miss Hooper about the test?”

“Yes,” Sherlock does not look up from his work. “You are the fraternal twin sister of Dr. John Watson.”

“You have rotting human hair in a tin in your cupboard. How do you even manage to get hair to rot, did you leave the scalp on?”

“You didn’t throw it away did you?”

“Why would I? I was looking for tea.”

Sherlock moves to the door. “MRS. HUDSON TEA.” He goes back to his work. “But you were aware that the American media was reporting that there was no painting of Julia Stone?”

“Honestly no,” Blackwell moves closer to Sherlock’s work space. “I rarely pay attention to the media during serial killer cases. It’s all about what sounds the most sensational and most of the time it’s all wrong. Even if we place a blackout or ask for certain details to be withheld, they end up released anyway. We were very careful with certain details because the families. We never mentioned the extent of the torture, or the rape. All that comes out years later when some television show does a special report,” Blackwell yawns and stands behind Sherlock, her back to his, and begins to examine the papers. “However, the team started to get fairly big towards the time he took Julia Stone and rookie agents aren’t the best and keeping their mouths shut. According to the official federal statement, The Sussex Vampire was a Mr. Ronald Flack, who kidnapped women from jogging paths and parking lots before extracting their blood and painting portraits with it.”

“Many of these stories discuss torture,” Sherlock says. “Even the sources from international press outlets also describe torture and rape.”

“Of course, most laypeople think that all sadists want it to beat women until they get off, of course the media would probably report torture just as a guess. We questioned quite a few journalists at the beginning of the Vampire’s killing. They know so much about murderers that I’m surprised more of them aren’t serial killers themselves.”

“Most of them are probably too stupid,” Sherlock mutters.

“I agree.”

Sherlock smiles to himself. It feels like John is home. Eva Blackwell isn’t like most clients—he can talk to her. He can ask a question and get the answer he was looking for. With the exception of her admission to using both legal and illegal substances, she remains professional. Concerns herself with the facts. She doesn’t bother with annoying pleasantries for the most part. She found her own way to the linens, took a shower, even rummaged for tea. She doesn’t ask questions about his methods. Sherlock assumes that the incident in the morgue contained a fair amount of flirtation. In her line of work, Blackwell has probably grown accustomed to using it to get her fellow male agents to listen to her, and probably a habit that she has since identified as unneeded with Sherlock Holmes. He finds himself wishing that her flirtations towards him were not merely a habit, but sincere.

Fuck all, he was hoping those thoughts had left him.

“Hello,” John walks into the room carrying a tray with tea. “Mrs. Hudson was about to bring this up but I took it. She says to remind you she’s not your housekeeper. Eva, good morning,” John says to her as he sets the tray down.

“Not a journalists then,” she mutters.

“Gosh,” Mary waddles in behind John, carrying a pasty box. “You’d think she was Sherlock’s sister.”

Blackwell steps towards John. “You got the message.”

“I did, yes. I called my sister Harriet. Our sister. She wasn’t interested in much, but then again she was probably still drunk from last night.”

“Reminds me of mom,” Blackwell smiles and turns to Mary. “You must be Dr. Watson’s wife.”

“Mary,” they shake hands. “You do look just like him, my John.”

“Call me John, Eva. If you would like.” John pockets his hands and looks at the ground nervously. “I mean, maybe we should talk about it. After, after the case.”

“If that’s what you’d like, John.” Blackwell moves to pour a cup of tea, putting in cream and handing it to Sherlock. He takes it wordlessly. “Did you bring food? All Sherlock has is rotting hair and honestly, I’ve had my fill of that.”

“I didn’t know what you liked,” Mary goes over to the sofa and slowly lowers herself down. “I brought a whole mess of things.”

Blackwell opens the box. “Jelly donuts? I could fall in love with you Mary,” she takes a huge bite. “Dr. Wat…John, tell you I was an American Fed?”

“Yes,” Mary winces. 

John rushes to her side. “Contractions?”

“No, my foot hurts. I thought the climb up here would surely get this little girl going. I do hope this case wraps up in time and you get to stay and see the baby,” Mary smiles at Blackwell.

Blackwell’s smile fades and she finishes her last bite and grabs a croissant, walking over to Sherlock and holding it an inch from his mouth. “Eat.”

“I don’t eat during a case.”

“After about twenty four hours, the human body begins to go into starvation mode. Your body slides into ketosis, meaning stored glucose is gone and your body starts using its fat stores. You, Mr. Holmes, are quite thin. Meaning you don’t have much. You know where you do have fat tissues? In the brain, surrounding your neurons. Meaning the longer you go without eating, the more your body literally eats your brain.” She shoves the croissant into his mouth. “Eat.”

Sherlock takes a bite and chews, swallowing and opening his mouth to demonstrate he did eat it before taking the croissant from Blackwell. She smirks and sits down at Sherlock’s desk and begins to type on his laptop. John approaches her, lowering his voice. “You do realize it would take weeks before his body would eat his brain, right?”

“Of course I do, but obviously my knowledge of human anatomy is better than his,” she smiles. “Seriously, human hair.”

“I came home from shopping to find a head in the icebox. I’ve never been able to encourage him to eat during a case.”

Blackwell hits a few more keys. “I know these case files by heart, but if you and Mr. Holmes would like to read them,” she stands. “I need to get dressed and go shopping.”

“What for?” John asks, sitting in her place.

“Something to wear to an art gallery opening. I didn’t pack for that.”

Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out a credit card. “Take this.”

Blackwell approaches and takes the card. “Mycroft? I only met him for a few minutes but I can already tell that you having his credit card could not be a good idea.”

“Spend as much as possible,” Sherlock says. “I need some entertainment.”

“I bet he’s cute when he’s angry,” Blackwell smiles.

“Can I go with you?” Mary asks. “I can drive. And,” she looks to John and back to Blackwell, “you are a psychiatrist, meaning you went to medical school. So if anything happens I’ll be just fine. Besides, it might be the last outing I get to go on for a while.”

“A serial killer is after me,” Blackwell replies. “Probably not the best idea. But if you want to go home, I’ll ride with you and then take a cab. Let me get dressed.”

John waits until she closes the door to Sherlock’s bedroom before he speaks. “Mary, don’t push her too much. We haven’t talked about whether or not we even want to establish a relationship.”

She waves him off. “I won’t unless she asks questions, and even then I’ll encourage her to ask you. Work on this case. And try to solve it before Sh…she comes.”

After John sees Mary and Blackwell off, he sits back in front of the laptop and begins to read the case files Blackwell accessed. “Sherlock, on the autopsy report it says that Julia Stone was disemboweled and Flack laid her intestines about her neck and shoulders. Her carotid artery was severed, which ultimately lead to her death. I’ve read this before. This is a copycat scene.”

Sherlock goes to his piles of papers in the living room and frantically paws through them. “I saw no connection in the papers to crimes.”

“Jack the Ripper,” John says. “I’ve seen several documentaries, in school my friend was convinced he figured out who he was.”

Sherlock gestures for John to stand up and he sits at the laptop. He is silent for nearly an hour, reading through the case files of the Sussex case. It isn’t until John’s mobile rings with a text that Sherlock begins to speak.

“Nobody picked up on the similarities because there were purposely vague, and out of order. Many believe the Ripper killed five women—the canonical five. That of course is nonsense, he can be linked to upwards of twenty murders. Not all of his murders are related to Ripper victims that I can tell. Sarah Walker, Flack’s second murder…Walker was the birth surname of the Ripper’s first victim Mary Ann Nichols. Heather McCormick was Flack’s first known victim. She was dating a man named Julian Dorset. Elizabeth Stride was the Ripper’s third victim and was living on Dorset, which is now Duval, at the time of her murder. Out of order.”

“Julia Stone was killed and her body staged in a manner similar to the fourth woman the Ripper killed, Eddowes if I remember.”

“Flack’s fifth victim, Patricia Anderson, was found in a foreclosed house two blocks west of Sussex, a street called Hanbury. Hanbury was the street where Annie Chapman was found.”

“The Ripper’s second victim,” John sighs. “Why out of order?”

“Not all of Flack’s victims shared any known commonality with the Ripper. Flack’s need for blood was starting to get stronger, maybe those victims were just opportunities. He was trying to enact his own version of The Ripper Murders almost as an afterthought.” Sherlock types vigorously. “Where are all the original serial killers?”

“I hope you don’t mean that,” John replies. “That’s why he didn’t kill Eva, she wasn’t part of his canon.”

Sherlock furrows his brown, knowing that he should tell John that there is more to what happened to Blackwell. Eva. Will she tell him on her own, or will she keep it to herself? Did she only tell Sherlock because he had admitted to drug use in his past—or because she trusted the sociopath? Was she taking advantage of his nature? If she was, did he honestly even mind? Eva was wrong about profiling being more beneficial than deduction, but she was right about needing Sherlock.

“Mary Kelly, the fifth victim, was found near Miller’s Court on what used to be called Dorset Street. It’s now Duval. Duval is where the gallery is. The gallery is south of Whitechapel, but it’s on Duval. If Flack knew that Blackwell would track down the painting after it went disappearing from the gallery on Duval…” John trails off.

“But that was after he had already kidnapped her in the states,” Sherlock interjects. “I’ll need to talk to her when she returns. There must be something. What I do know is that Mary Kelly was almost completely ripped apart. Organs removed and positioned around the room, skin and muscle removed from bone. It was considered the most brutal of the murders. If Flack is saying that Blackwell is his Mary Kelly, then we need to catch him off guard before he does the same to us.”

~

“Oi, watch it!” A young man, dirty blonde hair that’s been unwashed for days, several layers of dirty and torn clothing covering a thin frame, screams at a passing man in a suit. The young man weaves through men and women trying to get on the Tube. He drops his backpack and a half-eaten apple rolls out of a hole on the side. A man accidentally steps on it as he moves by, smashing it into the dirty pavement.

The young man picks up his bag and continues moving across the station. He looks at passing doors until he sees one marked “PUMP ACCESS.” He looks over both shoulders before turning the handle and pushing his way inside.

It’s dark. The young man fishes in his pocket and removes a lighter, igniting it before he continues to walk. He walks past a gate blocking access to several pipes and values and begins to move down a pitch black. A figure obscured by the dark moves. “Did you locate him?” the figure says. Male voice.

“Oi,” replies the young man. “He gave this man on the street a paintin’ and some money. I used what you gave me to get a cab and follow—he walked into an alley and just vanished. I got out and tried to find him…I found the shirt and cap he was wearin’ in a dumpster.”

“You LOST him?” The voice erupts. 

“I…I tried sir.”

An envelope sails through the air and lands at the young man’s feet. “Here. Use this for cab fare. There is a prepay mobile in there with a number to text when you find him. FIND HIM OR I WILL USE YOUR TONGUE FOR A STAMP.”

The young man grabs the envelope and runs out of the room, stumbling into the walls and gates a few times before opening the door and disappearing back into the station.

~

Blackwell turns around and faces the full-length mirror in the tiny dressing room. It fits, it’s in season, and it’s nice. It’s for one night, plenty good enough. She begins to upzip the dress but stops. If she just needed something for the gallery opening, then why is this the fourth shop she’s been to? She is trying to show John that she can clean up good, for a Yankee, and be worthy of being his sister? Does this mean she wants to be his sister? She was so resolute in the shower last night, deciding that after she killed Flack she would just slink away and never speak to him again. Was she looking for something to wear in front of Greg Lestrade? He was charming, if not completely ridiculous in his simplicity. Spending time around sociopaths has spoiled her for normal men. Although the thought of having sex with anyone after what Flack did to her makes her tremble as she removes the dress.  
Is she trying to impress Mr. Holmes?

She laughs off the thought and begins to put her clothes on. Sherlock Holmes is not a womanizing sociopath. They go either way—some of them rather enjoy excess sex, it plays into their selfish nature. Others find it too complicated and abstain after one or two experiences in their youth. She would put money on the latter. Besides, she really only uses sex to get other agents and officers to listen to her. With the exception of perhaps her first time with her high school boyfriend, she doesn’t think she ever had sex because wanted to, or because she really cared for the other person. She has Mr. Holmes’ attention with the case and her intelligence. Her immediate instinct to associate sex and romance to any man who trusts her and respects her for who she is and what she does is ridiculous and an old habit she learned from her mother. She doesn’t have eyes for Sherlock Holmes, she wants to ensure she remains important to him. She needs him. Once Flack is dead, maybe she can sleep at night. Without the drugs. She can go back to her job at the FBI and start over with her personal life. Maybe it’s time to settle down, go into private practice. She’s always wanted to work with helping teens who are showing signs of sociopathy to integrate into society more effectively. She could meet someone, get on with one of those normal relationships. Show everyone that a girl who was raised in what was practically a house of prostitution can be normal. Better even.

Grabbing the dress, she leaves the dressing room and moves towards the lingerie department. Sherlock told her to spend as much as she could, and she has no doubt that the look on Sherlock’s face when Mycroft yelled at him for it would be the most entertaining part of her trip to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***I have researched Jack the Ripper a lot years ago and as far as I can, those details are correct. Data shows that the same man probably killed several other women. In addition, this case may go against the popular theories you have heard of, mostly because science is now showing most of the popular theories are wrong—yes I’m looking at you Patricia Cornwell 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio head to the East End to lure out a modern-day Ripper.

“So I’m Mary Kelly?” Blackwell asks. She returned from shopping and listened to Sherlock and John tell her what they deduced before putting her shopping upstairs in John’s old bedroom before returning to work. “There’s no way to ensure my team would be assigned to profile his case. He would have needed to plan it out from the beginning. The first murder was committed five years ago, three years before I joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Flack’s victims don’t correlate to the Ripper’s victims, the similarities are out of order,” John says, pouring and handing Blackwell a cup of tea. “What if he hadn’t picked out his Mary Kelly until you became involved in the case?”

Blackwell nods a thank you before taking a sip. “I suppose it wouldn’t have been impossible to research that both of my parents were dead. Mary Kelly did not communicate with her parents for years before her murder. I could be a connection, weak but a connection. Seems as though many of his connections are weak.”

“John’s right,” Sherlock states, returning from the kitchen with a Styrofoam container of food and a fork in his hand. “Ronald Flack became intrigued by you and found what he could to make you his Mary Kelly.”

“I’m right about something?” John smiles. “First he eats on a case, now he admits I’m right.”

“If I am Mary Kelly, he won’t kill me tonight,” Blackwell moves to Sherlock. “He will want to watch me, enjoy me from afar. He’ll be at the gallery tonight, well, at least outside the gallery. We haven’t in any way acted upon this theory in the public, and the FBI never made the connection. I certainly never did. We should tempt him.”

“How?” John asks, clearly uneasy.

“Sherlock and I will take a walk from the gallery near a murder site. It will be too tempting, to be able to take me from there. We’ll make it look like a coincidence of course. He’ll be bold and try to overpower Sherlock. Which reminds me, call Greg and ask for a bullet proof vest to wear tonight. He won’t shoot me, but he might try to take you out.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock says, mouth full of food.

“If he stays true to his form,” John adds, “he won’t kill you right away either. How can we track where he takes you and get him before he hurts you?” The tone in his voice suggests that he likes this less and less.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock removes his phone from his pocket and begins to text.

“Your wife is lovey,” Blackwell says to John. “She told me, the baby. Swore me to secrecy but she told me.”

“Told you what? Oh…” John figures out the answer. “I don’t know how much she told you.”

“I think it’s perfect.” Blackwell sighs slightly. Within just a few conversations and pleasantries, it’s just getting harder and harder to walk away as planned.

“What’s perfect?” Sherlock pockets his phone. 

“What’s going on?” John asks.

“I’ve asked Mycroft for some help. John, call Lestrade and have him deliver a bullet proof vest. I’ll be in the shower. Blackwell, what color is your dress?”

“Why? You hope it will look good on Greg’s bedroom floor in the morning?” she laughs. Something she can handle, these jokes.

“I need to make sure the GPS Mycroft is bringing will match,” Sherlock disappears into the bathroom, surprised that her comment about another man’s bedroom irritated him.

~

“I think I should go home with Mary,” John says. “She would kill me if I put myself in danger. Unless you need me.”

“You broke the case, you found the connection. I need you.” Sherlock straightens his tie in the mirror. “You have knowledge of the Ripper more than I would expect most of The Yard to. I could arrange to have one of Mycroft’s men in the house with Mary if you wish.”

“Yes, a strange man in my home with my wife,” John mutters. “I’ll call Greg and ask if Donovan could be there.”

“I need your eyes, and sniper abilities. You’ve killed a man for me before.” He’s saved your life, Sherlock thinks. “We’ll put you on a building across the street.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” John smiles. “Let me call Mary and Greg,” He takes out his phone and moves into the kitchen to make his call.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft walks into Sherlock’s sitting room. He hands Sherlock a small red jewelry box. “I had to ask a very big favor in order to get these. They are real diamonds.” He smiles smugly at the fact. 

Sherlock opens the box and closes it. “They will do. If he does chose to remove them let’s hope he waits until they arrive at the final destination.”

“I sent you a text with the link to the GPS tracking system, it’s online. Speaking of things online, Anthea was doing my weekly ledger and noticed a rather substantial charge at a women’s clothing store today.”

“We needed materials related to an undercover operation to locate Moriarty. Not like you can’t afford it.”

“No matter,” Mycroft hides his annoyance, not wanting to give Sherlock the satisfaction. “Where is Agent Blackwell?”

“Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

Eva Blackwell walked into the room. She is wearing a royal blue dress with small satin straps slightly off the shoulder. Her now-wavy hair is cascading down, just barely long enough to sit on top of her milky shoulders. A strand of fake pearls sat just at the top of her collarbone. The dress was form fitting until the hips, where is created a soft flowing skirt down to her ankles. She wore black strapped heels that were just enough to give her height, but not too high that she wouldn’t be able to break into a run. Sherlock admires her practicality as much as her beauty.

“Agent Blackwell, I see my money was well spent,” Mycroft smiles.

Sherlock turns his body to face hers. He looks down at the floor briefly and quenches his smile before handing her the jewelry box. “GPS earrings, in case he makes a move tonight. Obviously Lestrade’s men will end up losing him and John will have to stay back. I will not have John in danger. A necklace would have been too easy to lose in a struggle.”

Blackwell opens the box. “Are these real?” Inside are diamond stud earrings set in silver.

“Of course,” Mycroft says. “Sherlock,” he pulls a smaller box from his pocket. “Two way communication ear device for you.” Sherlock puts it in his ear and hands Mycroft the box. “I would have brought one for Agent Blackwell, but I was only able to get two on short notice and the other one is for Dr. Watson.”

Blackwell puts the earrings on. “Now Sherlock handed them to me, but you brought them. So which one do I have to sleep with at the end of the night?” Mycroft blushes and she laughs.   
“Come on gentlemen, I may be abducted and tortured tonight, a little levity would help.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Sherlock says sternly. Mycroft glances at Sherlock, sensing that he’s already in too deep. Perhaps it’s because of the relation to John. Mycroft hopes that is all. Although Mycroft must admit to himself that Eva Blackwell is attractive.

“Eva,” John walks into the room. “You look very nice. Like Mum. Like the pictures of her when she was younger. I’m sure I still have some.”

“Thank you John.” She turns back to Sherlock. “Let’s go.”

~

The gallery is full of people when Sherlock and Blackwell arrive. He holds the door open for her, a gesture he didn’t make the last time they were here. “They still haven’t replaced the painting,” Sherlock remarks.

Blackwell looks over to the black wall, which has a gathering of about ten people. “Let’s go see,” she grabs his hand and drags him over.

“This particular serial killer was fond of hanging his victims by their feet and bleeding them out like cattle to collect their blood,” an older man wearing a tuxedo gestures to the wall. “Scotland Yard has captured the killer and obtained the painting. I was told they will be delivering it tonight.”

Black leans towards Sherlock, “Did you hear about that?”

“I’ve heard nothing,” Sherlock says.

“He’s lying. Worse, he’s basically saying the police are coming here any moment. He’s going to push Flack away,” Blackwell moves towards the man as the crowd disperses.

The man has short, white hair. Obviously late for a haircut. His face was wrinkled for a man of…60 Sherlock deduced. The shirt underneath is old, slightly wrinkled and the fabric is worn. Sherlock notes the sleeves of his tuxedo are slightly too short. This suit is not rented, he owns it. It’s the only one he owns and judging by the wear, he cannot afford to have it tailored or repaired. His shoes are perhaps only slightly more worn, but he has polished them. Not at the Tube station, he’s used a home kit because he did not buff near the sole as a professional would. His bow tie is new, but cheap.

“Hello, my name is Peter O’Dell,” he reaches out to shake a hand but neither Blackwell nor Sherlock shake back. “I run this gallery.”

“You’ve also managed to completely ruin an international investigation!” Blackwell puts her hands on his chest and pushed him against the wall where the painting once hung. “By lying about the police delivering the painting, you have single-handedly allowed for the escape of a serial killer who gets off by SLAUGHTERING WOMEN.”

“Blackwell,” Sherlock moves to pull her off the old man.

“No, see, I did not fly halfway across the world, squeezed myself into this dress and put myself through an emotional hell just so this fucking bastard can tell his lies and let this man run free to go rape and torture some poor innocent woman.” She looks back at the now shaking old man. “Do you know what he does to his victims? DO YOU?”

“I….I just wanted people to come….buy something. We’re going to have to close….” The man almost has tears in his eyes.

“Oh, so I’ll just comfort a family tomorrow by saying ‘oh yes, your daughter was brutally raped for days, cut up, burned and electrocuted. Oh yes, and disemboweled with his bare hands while still alive but it’s okay, because some shit gallery in the East End will live to see another opening.” She lets him go and turns to storm out of the building.

Sherlock catches up to her on the street outside. “If he didn’t ruin the operation, you certainly did.”

“Don’t you DARE,” she turns around, nearly falling in her shoes. “There is no way now that Flack will even come close. For all we know he just watched me get of the cab and took off before all the fucking police showed up.”

“Blackwell, let’s go.” He moves to take her arm but she pulls away. “Let’s take Whitechapel to Old Castle, by foot we can get to the location in about fifteen minutes.”

She walks ahead of his silently. Sherlock can almost see the anger floating off of her milky shoulders and she shivers in the cold. John was angry when they brought Mary back to Baker Street after she revealed her true self. Sherlock thought that John would hit his resonating frequency and completely fall apart. But he didn’t. Sherlock’s not entirely sure that Blackwell won’t.  
It isn’t until they turn north onto Old Castle that Blackwell speaks. “These shoes are shit.”

“Women’s formal clothing is quite impractical,” Sherlock replies. He wants to tell her that she looks beautiful. He wants to hold her and give her a space to fall apart. He tried to do that for John, by bringing him back to Baker Street to confront Mary. By taking him to his parents’ home. John would never let him literally hold him, so that was as close as he got. Sherlock wanted to hold him, wrap him up in his coat. Make all the insecurities about being a father disappear. Make John okay in a way that Mary never will.

John?

“Hurry,” Blackwell turns back as she keeps moving. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sherlock hurries to take her hand. He feels her tense momentarily before calming and holding his hand gingerly in return. “You aren’t exactly creating good bait. I for one, would be terrified to try to abduct you when you are this angry.”

“You aren’t scared now,” her voice is even, lower. Nearly a whisper.

“Why should I be? I’m wearing a bullet proof vest. I have never taken the walking tour of the Ripper murders.”

“Really? I thought you would have done it as a child and called out the tour guide on historical inaccuracies.”

“I got what I needed from books. Besides when you arrive at the spot Mary Kelly was killed you will be terribly disappointed. It’s an alley now next to a parking garage.” 

~

John settles into his new location atop the parking garage, adjusting the scope on his rifle. “This is Watson, anyone have confirmed visual of the target?” This isn’t a strict undercover mission so the team decided for the clarity of working together with civilians, they dispensed with formal terminology.

The earpiece crackles in his ear. “No visual of targets. Agents ETA to location 5 minutes.”

“Watson out.”

John would like nothing better than for Ronald Flack to make an appearance and attempt to take Eva. He would like nothing more to shoot him in the head before he laid a hand on her. He would love to take Eva home for dinner and show her photographs of their mother. He would love to have a real sister again. One that actually cares to speak to him. It would be nice to have a second person on this planet he can trust.

John notes that the feed from Sherlock’s two-way piece has been silent for a few minutes. He hears Blackwell’s heels clicking against the pavement for ten more steps before she speaks. “You know after this I’ll never see John again.”

“I figured that out right away, it’s obvious. He thinks you might actually have a relationship.” Sherlock speaks monotone, showing no emotion in his voice.

“The only family I’ve ever known was my mother. After father died, she turned our flat into her own whorehouse. When we moved to the states, I was old enough to start working the family business. One day I came home from school and I had my first customer waiting for me in the kitchen. My fucking English teacher. Sitting there, waiting to fuck me,” her heels stop clicking. “I kicked him in the balls and ran away. I was 13. Lived with friends and on my own for two years before she begged me to come home and take care of her. She promised I wouldn’t have to hook. At least she kept that.” 

“You had to have kept your grades up to get into university,” Sherlock says.

“School was the only place I was safe,” Eva replies. “I ended up moving in with some older man who didn’t ask for my share of the rent as long as I paid him in ass and housekeeping while I worked towards my doctorate. By the time he got bored with me, I could afford a place of my own. See, that’s why John won’t see me again. I’ve spent all my life running away from the only family I’ve ever known, being completely independent. This case, me coming here, is the first time I’ve needed help. If you only knew…” her voice trails off. “His got Mary and the baby. He is so much better off without me fucking it all up.”

John swallows. He cannot believe what he heard. He’s upset that she hasn’t even given him the benefit of getting to know that he is not like the rest of her family was, and yet he completely understands why she would want to run away from him as fast as she can. Perhaps she will feel differently after this case and the stress of Flack being after her is gone. Perhaps she would feel different once she gets to hold her niece, Shirley Eva Watson.

Sherlock seems to have taken a liking to her as well. The only other women John has known to have slept in Sherlock’s bed were Irene Adler and Janice---and Janice wasn’t sleeping in that bed alone for the sole fact that he was working on a case. John was never sure if Sherlock had sex with Irene, but he didn’t like the thought. There was always something….slimey…about her. Like she was the only person on the planet more selfish than Sherlock. She could have actually broken his heart, had he gone that one step closer and let her in completely.

Not that Sherlock fancied Eva. If anything, he was protecting her because of his promise to John to always be there for him. Not that John should feel protective of Eva. She’s an adult, she can engage in whatever she wants to engage in with whomever she wants to engage in it with. No, John was feeling protective of Sherlock. Damned if Eva was his twin sister, if she in any way got Sherlock hurt, or hurt him herself, John would most certainly go on the attack.

“That car has been doubling back,” Sherlock says. “Third time now. Second time could have been someone lost, a tourist looking for Ripper murder sites.”

“Third time,” Blackwell repeats. “We’ve been moving, if he was doubling back for a location…”

“He’s doubling back for you,” Sherlock whispers.

John depresses the button attached to his lapel. “Visual on our agents, does anyone have a visual?”

“Turning the corner, they should be in your line of sight in less than ten seconds.”

John looks for them and sees Eva turn the corner first. She’s holding her shoes in one hand, Sherlock’s hand in the other. John’s jaw tenses. “Visual on target? Does anyone have a visual on the car?”

“Blue sedan, went back to Whitechapel Road,” replies an officer.

John uses the scope to view the scene. He sees a cab approaching Eva and Sherlock. When the cab stops, it’s all he can do to not open fire on anything and everything that moves. His sister and his Sherlock were down there and damned if he’d let anyone hurt them.

“Pretend we are fighting, give me an excuse to catch this cab alone,” Eva whispers to Sherlock just loud enough for John to hear. “I still can’t see his face.”

“Eva,” Sherlock says in John’s ear. “YOU STUPID bi…bit…WOMAN!” 

Even though it’s pretend, John resists the urge to shoot Sherlock for the remark, but gives him the credit for the lesser of the two words. Through the scope he sees Eva moves towards the cab and get in. “Are you tracking her?” Sherlock says.

Watson grabs his mobile and opens the application that displays a street map with a red dot. “She’s moving south.”

“John, come with me,” Sherlock asks.

John grabs his rifle and runs as fast as he safely can down to the street. When he arrives, Sherlock is already impatiently waiting in the back of an unmarked car with Lestrade behind the wheel. “They are at Whitechapel now, heading south. Looks like they are going towards the docks.”

“All units…” Lestrade repeats the information into his radio as he speeds through the streets, lights on but no siren.

“Did you see him?” John asks Sherlock. “Did you see Flack’s face?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I couldn’t see his face. Gerry FASTER,” he demands. His knee is bouncing and his foot tapping is audible on the floor of the car. “I won’t let anything happen to her, John,” he says under his breath. “I promised, I will keep you safe.”

John continues to shout out directions to Lestrade. His chest feels tight at the sight of the normally cool Sherlock Holmes visibly fidgeting, yelling at Lestrade to go faster, go faster, you’re losing them. John finally puts a free hand to Sherlock’s knee to still it. He keeps it there, not wanting to end the contact. He wished telepathy was real and he could just think to Sherlock that everything will be alright, and to calm. He has learned over the years when Sherlock needs comfort, even though he never seeks it out or even gets it. John wishes right now, he could figure out how to give him what he needs.

“There’s nobody here!” Lestrade sounds out as the police car approaches a shipping dock. “Nothing.”

“No, no, “ John moves his hand and looks to his phone. “According to this, she’s in the water.”

~

Sherlock jumps out of the car when he hears John say ‘water’. Did Flack remove the earrings? How could he have known? Did he decide he wanted her dead more than to play with her, so he just shot her and dumped her in the water? Sherlock knows he is capable of all of these things, and more. If she’s dead, he’ll spend every waking moment making it up to John.  
Sherlock looks out over the water in the dock. That’s when he sees splashing. He manages to shed his coat before diving into the water. The icy cold hits him like concrete. For a moment he forgets where he is. The pain, the pain is horrifying. Focus, he tells himself. For John, you need to return to the surface for John. Breathe.

He takes a breath and looks around. It’s dark, he’s cold. He sees flashes of light bounce off the water. He hears muffled shouts. He sees the moving water ahead. It begins to calm. No, he won’t let it. He forces every muscle to move, but the pain is tricking them into cramping up tightly around his bones. No, no, no. The water goes calm. He’s almost there, he can get to her in time.

He forces himself under, and thankfully he doesn’t have to go far. He feels fabric and grabs on tightly. Pull up, he tells his body. Get you both to the air. When he does he rolls Blackwell’s face up to the sky, forcing his body to the nearest dock. He sees the light from the torches as John and Lestrade wave him over. He isn’t sure he can do it. This vessel is failing him.

He feels hands pull Blackwell out of his arms and return for him. He rolls onto his back on the wood and begins to shiver. His muscles refuse to move in a natural way, punishing him for his bravery. He feels hands on him, tearing off his jacket and shirt. Wet clothes will kill him now. Yes. He begins to pull off his trousers, but his fingers won’t work. Someone else works the button and zipper. How embarrassing.

He pushes the fingers away and manages to get down to his socks and pants. He looks up to see John holding Blackwell in Sherlock’s jacket. Her dress lies on the dock at her feet. John’s holding her wrist and taking her pulse. She’s shivering, so she’s breathing. She’s alive. John’s alive. Sherlock saved him.

~

“Sherlock, let her sleep,” John whispers.

Eva is sleeping in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock insisted that the hospital was not safe and that unless she was dying, to bring her back. She passed out after regaining a somewhat normal body temperature due to the shock of the cold water. John suspects it’s also due to lack of sleep and poor diet. He has been watching Sherlock’s face when he looks at or talks about Eva. Concern. Fear even. John doesn’t like seeing those expressions. He wants to make all of them go away.

As the two men move to the sitting room and begin sipping tea, John things that maybe it is best Eva runs away in the end. If losing her takes away this confusion and pain off Sherlock’s face, John will chase her away himself. He can still see Sherlock recovering from the cold this hour later. His face is still pale, but some color has returned. He stopped shivering, and his body has relaxed. Every few minutes, a grimace appears on his face and he rubs either his arms or his legs. John’s hands are still warm from giving his a shoulder rub on the way home. Sherlock’s hair is fuzzy from air drying, and it’s adorable.

John’s thoughts are broken by the sound of footsteps coming into the room.

“Flack sought out Moriarty about stealing the painting,” Eva stands at the edge of the room. 

She’s wearing one of Sherlock’s shirts and the same red plaid pants as this morning. John dressed her after bringing her back to Baker Street, taking a very clinical approach to her nudity. He did notice she has an identical mole on the back of her left thigh just like he does. He looks at her with immediate distain—if she does anything to put Sherlock in danger or to cause him any pain, maybe Sherlock will equate that pain with him and it will break him. 

“Once he had taken the painting, Flack made it clear his intentions for me. It wasn’t until Flack told Moriarty that he decided to kill the both of you that he cut his ties. Moriarty told Flack to leave London, but he can’t find any evidence that he has. Something about how the deaths of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson fall only upon the hands of Jim Moriarty. He made me jump off the dock to give him a distraction and time to get away. I had no idea the water would be so cold.”

“Why would Flack tell you all this?” Sherlock asks.

“No,” she shakes her head. “It wasn’t Flack in the cab. It was Moriarty.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems that Moriarty is more of an ally than a villain, now that Flack has declared his intentions to murder Sherlock and John. Moriarty isn’t the man Sherlock thought he knew. Also: Sherlock and John have a fight, both act like stupid kids. And hetsex.

John sets a fresh tea service on the kitchen table and returns to the stovetop to finish making eggs. Sherlock watches him from, shamelessly letting his eyes wander over his back. He’s learned that John carries his body a particular way when he is upset. He noticed it a lot the months after Mary shot Sherlock, before he foolishly forgave her on Christmas. He only forgave her because she was pregnant and he was terrified that she would disappear with his child. Sherlock doesn’t understand how John can love a person he hasn’t even met yet, someone who will require constant care and give nothing in return.

Seems stupid and boring.

Sherlock knows now that John heard what Mary said. They had both forgotten about the two-way communicator at the time. It would only make sense that John would be upset that not only did his new-found sister want nothing to do with him, but that a vicious serial killer intents to disembowel him. Being separated from that serpent Mary probably isn’t helping things. When will John realize he benefits none from her presence?

Sherlock doesn’t like these ill-thoughts towards his best friend. It sounds too much like jealousy and that is something John would not approve of.

“We can’t just stay here,” Blackwell says. “We have to make ourselves so tempting that Flack will come after us and not leave.”

“We tried that,” John spits, turning around to scoop scramble onto the three plates on the kitchen table. “Nearly got Sherlock killed.”

Sherlock does not let the fact that John didn’t acknowledge Blackwell’s danger slide past him. “Forget Flack. We need to make contact with Moriarty again.”

“Just how do you suppose we do that?” Blackwell asks. “He didn’t exactly leave me his phone number.”

Sherlock swallows a bite of egg. It feels foreign sliding down his throat. He’s working. But she asked him, and John quit asking him a long time ago. He missed being pestered to eat. And sleep. And not be a machine. When Mycroft did it, he hated it. But when John did it, he craved it. He liked that John cared enough to get into it over having a nap or a couple of biscuits. “Homeless network. If Moriarty is trying to find Flack, he’ll have his own network on the case. We use trackers to track the trackers.”

“Fine,” John slams the fry pan back onto the stovetop. “I’m going home to Mary.”

“NO NEED!” Mary’s voice rings out from the other room. “I came to you.” She’s out of breath from the climb up the stairs. Blackwell quickly gives up her chair to her and she sits. “John told me about your dive,” she says to Sherlock.

“Nice, nice. Good.” Sherlock mutters, taking a bite of toast. “Now we all know.”

John immediately bends to hug Mary, giving her a short kiss on the lips. Sherlock glares for a moment before scowling back at his food. An expression Blackwell notices. “I should call Greg, get extra security on Mary. No, I’ll call Mycroft.”

“I can take care of myself,” Mary says.

“If Ronald Flack is after the three of us, perhaps it be safer if we are split up,” John says. “It will disrupt his plan, assuming he plans on taking all three of us and recreating his typical scene. I should take Mary home.”

“This man is after the three of us now, he might kidnap you to get John,” Blackwell says. “Mary might be safer here.”

“I’ll stay here, there’s no incentive to take me then. I have a weekend bag in the car, John can fetch is at some point. Besides, I’ve been in worse situations.”

“Mary, I really don’t think you understand…”

“Mary used to be a spy in the CIA before she went rogue, did lots of bad things, killed a fair amount of people, lied to John, shot me, and somehow tricked John into not caring about being lied to and used,” Sherlock sips his tea. “She surely can take care of herself.”

He looks up to see John’s face nearly red, Mary blushing and looking at her hands in her lap. Sherlock hadn’t seen him so upset before, not even when he ‘came back from the dead’ in that restaurant. Blackwell’s face is stone, completely put in the middle. Sherlock feels satisfied, having waited quite a long time to say those things aloud to John. He never understood why John forgave her in the first place. As if she would ever really change. He sees a tear fall from Mary’s cheek onto her blouse. Serves her right, feeling some pain. John notices the tear and helps her stand. “Mary, let’s go home.”

“No, no, Sherlock is right,” she says, turning to him. “I know you never forgave me, you don’t trust me, and you don’t like that I took your John away from you. You don’t believe me when I say the pregnancy was unplanned, and you only barely believe that I purposely shot you where I did so that you wouldn’t die. You’ve only been silent this long because of the way you feel about John. You wanted to protect him, and if that meant keeping your feelings as hidden as you were capable of, then you did it. As upset as I am with you, I respect you for it. Hell, I might even love you. But right now, I don’t like you. I’m heartbroken for everything you did to John, who has done nothing but care for you, to his own detriment. What type of man would use another so?”

Sherlock and Blackwell are silent as John and Mary leave the flat without speaking another word. After a few heavy moments, Blackwell sits across from Sherlock. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“Long story, but you heard the important parts.” He looks up at her. “You still think you’re too fucked up for him?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ve noticed the way he approached me since the dock. He heard what I said last night. So stupid, how could I have forgotten about the two-way?”  
“When emotions get in the way, judgment is often lost.”

Blackwell smiles. “And what was that just now? Did my brother’s favorite pet sociopath suddenly develop feelings?”

“Shut up.”

“No, no, you are protecting him—and by extension me---because he is one of the few things that matter to you. It’s sweet, really.”

“You called him your brother,” Sherlock changed the subject. “Change your mind about leaving?”

Blackwell didn’t bite. “Was there ever anything between you two?”

“He lived here, we solved cases together.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“He’s not gay.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know,” he replies a bit too fast. “Attraction is too subjective, too arbitrary.”

“You function with objective, concrete. I hate to break it to you, women are not concrete. When it comes to romance and sex anyway. Anything but objective. Men aren’t either, which is why I don’t bother most of the time.”

“I’ve never had an experience from which to determine a labeled sexuality.”

“You love him.”

“Not the way you are thinking.”

Blackwell stands up. “Mr. Holmes…”

“Sherlock.”

“Alright let’s change topics,” she moves over to him. “Thank you for jumping into freezing water and saving my life.”

“You are still pertinent to the case, to have let you drown would have been a waste.”

Sherlock sees the way she looks at him. It’s the same expression John shows to Mary—concern. Care. It’s the way John used to look at him too. Her eyes look just like his. If Sherlock squints, he could pretend he was looking at John. His John. The one he failed to protect. He won’t fail Blackwell. If John won’t let Sherlock love him by protecting him from Mary, then he’ll protect Blackwell from everything. He wonders if he’ll need to protect her from himself.

“You can call me Eva, Sherlock.” Blackwell touches his shoulder. “Eva.”

He nods and returns to his toast.

~

“I cannot believe that arrogant…what he said to you. And her, just letting him.” John slams the door shut and joins Mary in the sitting room of their home. “So many have told me that Sherlock would use me into the ground. He’s finally done it.”

“John, is there not an element of truth to what he said?” Mary wipes a tear from her check. “If I wasn’t pregnant, would you have forgiven me?”

“I told you exactly what I thought, and still do. Baby or not. I love Mary, not A, G, whatever your name was before. Because that’s not who you are, you are Mary Watson, my wife.” John sits next to her and cups her face, giving her a soft, long kiss. He does love this woman. He would spend a million lifetimes having to choose between her and Sherlock and he would chose Mary each time. Well, at one point that would have not been true, but right now that’s the only truth he wants to admit to.

“Oh John, I hope you and Sherlock can patch things up. Maybe not today, or next week, but…”

“Forget Sherlock Holmes.”

“John, you will not do that. Sherlock and I may never be true friends, but we both want you two to remain friends. You need him. He gives you something I can’t.”

“Nonsense.” John stands up. “Now it’s been so long since we’ve had a day to ourselves, what shall we do?”

“Aren’t you working a case with Sherlock and your sister?”

“Neither one of them need me, and Eva wants nothing from me.”

“Give her time.”

“No, she said she doesn’t want to see me again after the case.”

“John, love,” she takes his hand. “Just go back.”

He shakes his head and turns away. “I can’t Mary. Sherlock doesn’t realize how much…”

How much he hurt me, John thinks. He never would have admitted aloud, but everyone knew that it was John who took care of Sherlock. John was the one who got on him about cleaning the flat, or eating, or sleeping. It was John who managed to take care of things and keep clients from ringing the bell when he was in one of his no-speaking moods for a week on end. John was the one he would talk to when it was obvious that he was craving his heroin and needed a distraction. 

And it was Sherlock that John always admired. He took care of him because he stood in wonder of what he could do, what he could be. Yes, he fell for Sherlock’s abstinent charm, that ‘I just play socially awkward because it makes you laugh’ attitude. Being Sherlock Holmes’ best friend required more giving than taking. But what John got from him was so much more valuable than equilibrium.

“I’m going to read,” Mary says, settling in. “There’s clothes that need washing. That will give you plenty of time to pout.”

~

Eva can’t recall the exact moment when she realized Sherlock was standing in front of her, holding her face and kissing her. His mouth was soft, his tongue tentative, tasting like eggs. She couldn’t kiss back for several moments. Sherlock had shown no sign of being sexually interested in her, she can’t help but wonder if this is about John. She loosens her lips and kisses back. He’s warm and close to her. She pushes her body flush against his, feeling his arousal against her hip. She realizes how long it’s been since she’s been with someone of her own free will.

But this isn’t right.

She pushes away gently. “Are you that upset with John that you’ll screw his sister just to make a point?”

“My entire life isn’t about him,” Sherlock says on a drunken whisper daring to become a moan.

“No, it isn’t. It’s about you, and you need him.” Eva realizes she’s still standing close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. Her body is tingling. She wants this, maybe she needs this.

“I want you,” he replies.

She crashes her mouth back against his, this time his tongue forcing its way around hers. She reaches a hand up into his curly hair, carding it between her fingers. His large hands wrap around her waist and keep her there. He moans into her mouth. They stand there, kissing for what seems like hours. Her hands venture over his shoulders, around his waist, on his hips. His hands stay safe, on her back or face. She takes his hand and puts it to her breast. He squeezes softly, moving it to her neck after a few moments.

Sherlock breaks the kiss. “Bedroom.”

~

When they get there, Eva sits in the bed and pulls her top over her head. Sherlock moves forward to cup a naked breast. It’s soft, not at all unpleasant. Not what he imagined. He looks into her eyes, John’s eyes. Come back to me, John, he silently begs before divesting himself of his clothes completely. She finished undressing. Sherlock pushes her back onto the bed, engulfing her mouth with his again. She arches her body up into his. He’s throbbing against her thigh, suddenly less interested in whether or not he should be doing this and more interested in getting off.

His mouth wanders down her neck, tongue tracing moles and minor imperfections of her skin down to her breasts. He takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking and lightly teasing it to a point before moving to the other. Her gasps and slight moans are pleasing to his hear, each one causing his erection to twitch.

He continues to use his lips and tongue to travel down the length of her body. When he arrives at her thighs, he sees a dozen puckered scars. Cigarette burns from Flack. He moves away from them when he feels a hand in his hair. “It’s okay,” she whispers.

He licks each one, planting a kiss before moving to the next. She’s quiet. Is this all it takes to fix a person of emotional pain? When Mary finally breaks John, would licks and kisses be enough to glue him back together? Is this all he needed, for John to return the favor? Would John’s love be enough to save him?

Sherlock parts Eva’s legs and nuzzles into her mound. She arches and moans when his tongue finds that spot. He closes his eyes and pictures anatomical diagrams—the clitoris. Women have ten times the number of nerve endings here than the entire male penis. The taste is nice, and he wonders if this is how John would taste. But it’s too wet, too warm. It’s not really John. It’s not the one he would really want to experience sex for the first time with. But it’s as close as he’d ever get.

He replaces his tongue with his long fingers and moved back up to kiss her again. One of her hands makes its way down to his erection. When her warm hand wraps around him, he cries out. He can see now why sexual encounters are so sought after. It’s so nice. He thrusts into her fist and she bears her hips down onto his hand. He slips a finger inside her warm body and she keens into his mouth. Must mean she likes it. He slips in a second and she moans deep in her chest. It’s erotic, intoxicating. The smell in the air is like a drug and he is, after all, an addict.

Her breathing increases in rate and her hand grips him tighter. She uses her thumb to dip slightly into his slit and rub the pearl of pre-ejaculate onto him and it’s glorious. She digs her fingernails into his shoulder with her other hand and begins to cry out. He can feel her pulsing around his hand and her legs shaking next to him. She’s having an orgasm. Sherlock is momentarily proud of himself, he had read that women are somewhat of a mystery in that department. He continues to thrust into her fist, faster and faster, as she rides out the waves of her orgasm around his hand. He feels tension building in his lower belly, and knows the feeling. When he does the job himself on rare occasions he had timed it—he’s less than a minute away from his own orgasm.

She stops and pushes his shoulders, rolling him onto his back. Her cheeks and chest are blush, hair unkempt, and lips wet and red from the suction. Her eyes…John’s eyes, look at him intently. Pupils dilated, fixated on him. The same eyes that smiled at him after they killed a cab driver for him. The same eyes that begged him not to interfere with a date, or pleaded with him to save him from a rapid hound. The same eyes that were shocked by his experiments, that cried after his Best Man speech. He could know that John is sometimes weak, that he picked the wrong one, but for all his flaws, John is the person Sherlock wants.

She straddles his hips and slides onto him in one slick motion. Despite having already achieved her orgasm, she is tight around his penis. She settles herself around him and leans down to kiss him. He closes his eyes and believes in telepathy because he is begging her to move. When she finally does, he might just start praying to some imaginary deity.

She sits up, looking down at him. He stares into John’s eyes and notices his hands grasping her breasts in the periphery of his vision. It’s soft, but not slow. She eases her body up and down instead of slamming into him. He’d like that, something rough and animalistic. As the tension builds in his body he only fleetingly remembers she was raped, and this is probably the only way she can handle this encounter.

He grunts when he reaches orgasm, his toes curling and hands twitching on Eva’s body. He lets his eyes close, if only to remember John’s face.

~

When her heart finally stops pounding, she turns her head. Sherlock is asleep, probably for the first time in days. She wants to roll into him, rest her head on his chest and feel his arm holding her, but that’s not what this was about. Such cuddling is reserved for love. So instead she stares up at the ceiling, letting the sweat cool on her uncovered body.

Eva profiles Sherlock in this moment: he normally blasts his way through things to get to the other side and obtain his reward, whether it be a clue, proving he is right, or getting something over with. If he wanted her that way, they wouldn’t have made it out of the kitchen. She thinks he might even be the kind of man to wipe breakfast off the table and take her there. He’s mad at John, that’s why this happened. Such an intense relationship those two have. They are a couple with every other trapping except physical intimacy. Is sleeping with John’s twin sister a form of cheating? Eva knows that sociopaths can be capable of emotions like jealousy. Because it’s a selfish emotion, unlike love. But even she can see that his love for John is genuine, not merely because of the many things John does to serve him. Would this encounter destroy that?

She smiles to herself and she gets up and leaves the room. Grabbing a sheet to wrap around herself, she opens the door and walks to the shower. The water is warm and soothing on her tired, yet satisfied body. Smiling to herself, she realizes she forgot her shampoo in her bag. She takes Sherlock’s and begins to lather her hair.

She felt pleasure in her skin again. She didn’t tremble or fear being touched, she wasn’t worried about being hurt. Sherlock was gentle and careful. He let her have control. If she wasn’t careful, she could fall in love with him. Eva has to remember that he would never be the dating type. Anything he wants he takes with little to no regard of how he affects others. She would expect too much from him, need more than he could ever offer and it would end rather bitterly. Besides, she’s going home anyway. There’s no need for this to happen again. 

It was nice, and that’s all. One time. She’ll finish this case, kill Flack and go home and move on with her life. She turns off the water, finds a towel hanging on the bar, and wraps it around herself. She cannot decide if she should go back to Sherlock’s room where her things are, or just wait for him to wake up.

Eva steps out into the hall when she feels a breeze. She walks into the sitting room to see the door to the stairs wide open. That’s when she feels a hand reach from behind her and cover her mouth. The last thing she remembers is a needle sliding into her neck.

~

This sex scene was really awkward to write because it was from Sherlock’s POV and I think he’d think in those terms. Like I said, this is pre-slash so don’t worry!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva wakes up in hell. Sherlock gains the assistance of sources he trusts to find her.

Forty-five minutes later…

The first word that comes to her mind is pain. Sharp, jolting, running through her entire body. When it leaves, she can’t breathe. Her entire being hurts. She’s felt this before.

She’s being shocked.

No, no, no, shake yourself awake, Eva thinks to herself. You’re still asleep, she thinks. Next to Sherlock, in a warm bed. If you just roll over, you can touch him. Maybe he’d hold you until you fell back asleep, she forces herself to think.

“Wake up sweetheart.”

The sickeningly familiar voice jolts her eyes open. This isn’t a nightmare anymore. Ronald Flack has not shaved in at least two weeks, his beard matching his slightly greying hair. He wears a grey t-shirt and jeans. How unassuming. His eyes are piercing blue. His smile makes her stomach jump in her gut. He holds a Taser in one hand and gently touches her cheek with the other. She turns her face away, but the pain of the electricity still courses through her body. 

“Ah, touchy girl. I missed you.” He grabs her chin in his hand and force her head towards his. “Did you like my painting?”

“Fuck you,” Eva spits.

“Can’t wait, but first we need to figure out a way to get your new friends here without bringing all those pesky cops. See, they don’t like letting us play do they?” He presses the Taser to her naked belly. She notices that he dressed her in grey panties and a red bra—the same thing Julia Stone was wearing when she was killed. She’s laying on a makeshift table—blankets covering something that lifts her about three feet off the ground. It’s soft, probably several blankets. She suspects Flack may have been staying here. “I have this new friend, see, and he told me that your new friends have their own friends in high places. It’s all rather friendly isn’t it?”

“I heard your new friend isn’t so friendly anymore.” She quickly looks around the room---concrete floor and walls. No windows, just one door. Basement somewhere, perhaps a factory. She can hear the din of machines above. Hiding her in plain sight. There are two strips of florescent lights on the ceiling. There are boxes stacked on the edges of the room, and judging by the dust on the floor, Flack moved them himself. She sees three folding chairs against one wall. The other wall contains freshly drilled-in anchors with chains attached. Last time he had a witness, someone to help. That’s why he wants Sherlock and John. He’s going to make them watch. He’s going to make them help.

“Oh really?” He traces shapes over her belly with the prongs.

“I spoke to him last night. Between my new friend and your new enemy, you’ll never get out of this alive.”

“Who said that was my goal? All I want to do is kill you, if that leaves me dead in the end, so be it.”

He hits her with the taser again, but just for a short while. She convulses and cries out, choking on the mucus in her throat that comes from the sobs. She watches him approach a small metal table containing a tool box. He opens it and pulls out a syringe. “Now, this will keep you quiet for a while, just long enough for me to return.”

Eva screams as the injection slowly fades her world to black.

~

Two hours later…

He wakes up cold. They didn’t bother to cover themselves with the blanket. The room still smells like sex, a musky sweet smell. Despite the cold, he closes his eyes and pictures John’s face. He suspects that any self-respecting person would say it’s not healthy that he spent most of the encounter thinking about his best friend. Eva was right—romance is never objective. But it is addictive and he has a tendency for that sort of thing.

He reluctantly opens his eyes and gets out of bed. A glance at his bedside clock tells him it is past lunchtime. He pads down the hall to his bathroom and starts the shower. Eva used his shampoo, he can see she neglected to replace the cap. After applying to his own hair, he sighs and replaces the cap properly. At least John never used his things, he made quite the show of having everything separate. Would that change if John came back? Would he be able to deal with someone sharing his shampoo on a regular basis?

Once clean and clothed, he goes to the sitting room. Eva isn’t there. He remembers stepping on her clothes on his bedroom floor. He takes the stairs two at a time to John’s room, finding it empty. He runs back to his sitting room. Did she do something as stupid to leave on her own accord to draw out Flack? But how far would she go without clothing. Surely she isn’t as obstinate as he is.

He grabs his mobile from the side table and sends a text to Eva’s phone:

Where are you? –SH

A chime comes from the kitchen. He goes in to find Eva’s mobile on the table next to her cold eggs from this morning. Why would Eva leave without that? If Mycroft hadn’t come to claim the earrings after the incident at the docks, he could find her that way. Mycroft’s men. He sends another text.

Eva gone, what of my nannies? –SH

It seems like days, the nearly sixty minutes he waits for his reply. Sherlock paces. He’s failed John again. Eva is gone, and if she meant to draw out Flack or Moriarty, she has managed to do so with no backup. Was she afraid he would stop her from killing him? No, if she wanted to, he would hold the man down while she did it. It is possible she informed Mycroft or John of her intentions, but why not him? Is this what sex does to women? Sherlock can envision a life as a gay man.

Mycroft is still panting when he makes his way to the top of the stairs. He runs into the room. John is with him, refusing to look at Sherlock. “My men were told to fall back six blocks by Agent Walter Sickert---“

“Who doesn’t exist because Walter Sickert is one of the most popular suspects for the identity of Jack the Ripper,” Sherlock interrupts. “Why isn’t someone monitoring the cameras?”  
Mycroft sighs, knowing it’s pointless to pretend he doesn’t have cameras in the flat. “All security feeds were made wireless, transmitting on mobile frequencies, which are more difficult to crack into than wireless internet. Because they work on mobile frequencies, a cell jammer can block feed. I watched the recording---you were…talking to Agent Blackwell. I only assumed you had jammed the feed yourself. It was only off for maybe three minutes.”

“How long ago, Mycroft?”

“An hour after you…” Mycroft looks to John before finishing his response. “About three hours ago. I know you aren’t happy to be here, John, I saw your spat earlier today…”

“NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR YOUR SMUG DEDUCTIONS!” Yells Sherlock, pushing past his brother to his desk. “What do you remember of Jack the Ripper, John?”

John runs to Sherlock’s side. “Surely nothing you couldn’t possibly already know.”

“JOHN! It’s Eva.”

John sighs. “If Eva is his Mary Kelly, then he’s taken her somewhere relating to the Ripper locations. It’s what I would do.”

“I’ll ignore that,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock begins typing and clicking. “He wouldn’t take her to the parking garage, not nearly enough privacy. He needs a private place, abandoned. Somewhere where she could scream and nobody would hear her.”

“There are several industrial areas in the East End that he could use, places where machines are loud enough to drown out screaming,” Mycroft offers morbidly.

“He wouldn’t chose the East End. It would fit into his Ripper fantasy, but he wouldn’t risk us looking there first.” John adds.

“Where did his last murder take place?”

“In the US….” Sherlock looks up. “Mind palace.”

Mycroft stays silent, refusing to leave his brother at a time like this. He moves against the wall while Sherlock closes his eyes. He puts his hands in the air as if to communicate the size of the fish he caught on holiday. Mycroft observes an occasional flicker of his fingers before he decides it best to leave. If John can make it through rescuing his fair sister, then the friendship between him and his brother will be saved. 

He hopes. He hates to admit that Dr. John Watson was the best thing that ever happened to his brother. But Sherlock was not the best thing to happen to John.

~

One hour later…

He can’t trust these new ones. Of course, maybe he couldn’t have trusted the old ones. It’s all too late now. Too many variables. How on earth does anyone function when they cannot control everyone else?

He steps into the house, the smell hitting him instantly. He walks around a body, dispatched very quickly. He moves through the house, getting more and more upset. This was not supposed to happen, not this way and not now. He was to exact his own final symphony. Now he’s picking up the pieces after this reckless tornado destroyed all the instruments. 

He finds the source of the smell and actually feels sad. Remorse. Even he has his limits, his lines. With all the anger, hurt, even jealousy, there are some things that are never justified. He leans down and touches, nothing can be done. But something, he has to. He grabs at the strings, he performs CPR but the shattered wood won’t breathe. The violin isn’t moving. Everything is cold enough that nothing can be helped. 

There’s nothing more that can be done here. Now he has to prevent any more instruments from being destroyed. He grabs his mobile from his pocket, dials a number, and puts the phone to his ear.

“Everyone, now. Alert me at once. Nobody is to do anything but observe and report. I will skin the next person who fucks this up.”

~

Meanwhile…

Lestrade begins pacing. “You are telling me that Ronald Flack has Agent Blackwell but we are to stand down? Have you completely lost it?”

“You will kill her,” Sherlock says, throwing a handful of his research papers into the air, going back to dig through more. “Flack’s keeping her alive right now, it’s our only chance. He told Moriarty that he plans on killing John and myself as well, which means at some point he’ll give us a clue or contact us outright.”

“She’s been missing for what, four or five hours?” Lestrade snaps. “I don’t care who the hell you think you are, I have an American agent missing and currently going through God knows what. I’m calling in every favor I can to get every single person on the street looking for her.”

“Shut up, Greg.” John stands up. “I hate Sherlock with every ounce of my being, but he is the only one who can find my sister. If I have to tie you to a chair and shove you in a cupboard myself, I will do it. Despite all reasonable judgment, I have to trust him more than anyone else on this earth. You will shut up and stay out of his way.”

John’s outburst renders Lestrade silent. He sits on the couch and fiddles with a piece of lint on his trousers. John tries to steady his breathing and trembling hands but he appears to be failing. He’s read over the files that Eva had shown Sherlock the other day, he knows what Flack is doing to her. He knows Flack keeps his victims at least a day, up to three.

“How do we trust that Moriarty wasn’t lying to Eva?” John asks. “That he wants to stop Flack.”

“I trust Eva not to lie to me,” Sherlock replies.

“Your network is taking too long,” John mutters, rubbing his eyes.

“They are homeless, they don’t have private drivers to comb the city, I should be hearing back soon. I only made first contact right after you arrived. John,” Sherlock looks up at him. “I know what I said earlier…”

“Not going to hear this now. Or ever. Just find her.”

All three men turn their heads at the sight of Bill Wiggins walking into the flat, wearing an ever-so-flattering grey track suit. “Sherlock, I’ve heard in from Mickey, Tripp and Mugs.”

“Lestrade, leave,” Sherlock demands. John follows it with a look and he reluctantly leaves the flat.

“Anything?”

“Mugs says that a guy fittin’ that picture you showed me was lookin’ to buy chloroform.”

“Is that even a street drug?” John asks.

“Not much call for it, but I’ve made some on occasion. I mean, in the past. Haven’t made none in a long time so don’t know if he got it or not.”

“When?” Sherlock asks.

“Two days ago, again last night.”

“What time last night?”

“Mugs says it was ‘round eight, she says she saw a bank clock.”

“That was right after we pulled you and Eva out of the dock,” John says.

“But that’s not all,” Wiggins says. “One of Mickey’s mules was shopliftin’ at that mega store down near the Thames ‘n he saw that man buying some stuff—right at closin’ time. Didn’t know what for. Paid cash, the mule was thinkin’ of robbin’ him.”

“He was never planning on taking her at the gallery. He was never even there. The whole ruse was for nothing. He was going to take her from here but didn’t count on Mycroft’s security. He needed to buy equipment to make a signal jammer,” Sherlock hits a few more keys on the laptop. “In ten seconds I can find the instructions to take ordinary transmitters and turn them in to mobile frequency jammers. That’s what he used to get in here.”

“And he posed as one of Mycroft’s men to get them to fall back. In the confusion he slipped in and out.” John sits in his chair. “We still don’t know where he is.”

“We ain’t the only ones lookin’, many are sayin’ that some rich guy hired a bunch of kids to track this guy down too.”

“Moriarty,” John mutters. “Is there any way we can get them to get a message to him?”

Wiggins shrugs. “I can try, gonna hafta promise a lot of money.”

“Anything, go,” Sherlock says. “John, you get on the other laptop, start cross referencing everything on this list,” Sherlock hands him a five-page printout and setting an equally large printout on his own desk. “These are names, locations, witnesses that were involved with the Ripper case. Whatever leads we get, we’ll have to go through one by one.”

John sits down dutifully in front of the laptop at the kitchen table and begins typing. Is this why, regardless of what he does to hurt him, he comes back? This is more about John proving to himself why he can’t abandon Sherlock, no matter how badly he wants to, than about finding Eva. The sister he only learned about two days ago, the one who wants nothing to do with him. Not that he wishes a terrible death on her by any means, but is she really the reason why he is here?

He glances over at Sherlock. His eyes are searching the screen in front of him. His shirt is buttoned crookedly, a contradiction to the usually well-kempt detective. Sherlock’s lip move ever so slightly as words appear on the screen. He’s shaken, he’s only ever so slightly off his game. Perhaps he knows just how much he’s damaged their relationship. How much he’s damaged John’s feeling about him.

The words pop onto John’s screen and he swears he hears angels singing. “SHERLOCK I have something.”

Sherlock runs to John’s side. “What, what did you find?”

“The first victim, Nichols, was killed at a place called Buck’s Row on Durward Street. When I type that in together, I get Ripper hits. But when I tried them separately, I got this. ‘Durward Manufacturing’ owned by a Danny ‘Buck’ Black. It’s a few miles south of my place.”

“There’s no such thing as a coincidence,” Sherlock says. “That’s where he has her. Do you have your gun?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go.”

~

He wakes her up with the Taser again. Eva is thankful that it was a short burst, enough to jolt her awake and the pain dissipates faster. She smells blood. She doesn’t want to open her eyes but knows if she doesn’t he’ll hit her with the electricity again.

“I’m back,” he says. He sets down a black bag bulging with what appeared to be square boxes. “I’m going to start my painting here soon, but I need more blood. Yours, your friends’. I’ve been sketching your face for months, Eva. I can’t wait for you to see it when it’s done. I’ll keep you alive long enough.”

“I can’t wait until your body is dead on the ground after they come storming in here and I burn your painting. I’ll set your body on fire and flush your ashes down the toilet,” Eva says. She knows if she angers him, he’ll be so tempted to hurt her that he will mess up his plan. It will buy Sherlock time to find her before Flack finds him. “I won’t even let them report your death in the papers.”

“Are you trying to upset me, Eva? Miss Blackwell? Oh, you are downright sexy when you are angry,” he approaches her, pushing a hand into her panties. He forces his way inside her roughly and Eva bites her lip to avoid from crying out. “As much as I like you this way, I can’t wait to stick my hands inside you and feel your intestines slip between my fingers. If your snatch is any indication, they much be wet and hot. Steaming.”

“Too bad you’ll never have your chance,” she says.

He pulls his hand from her crotch and grabs her throat, choking her tightly. She coughs and gags. “If you don’t start screaming, I’m going to have to get more insistent.” He lets her throat go and pulls the cigarettes from his pocket. “What do they call them here? Fags? Ha, how fucking stupid. No wonder we dumped all their fucking tea in the water.” He pulls a pack of matches out and lights one. “You know how are it is to find these anymore?” He puts the match to the tip of the cigarette and inhales, the tip glowing red. He takes the match and presses the flaming head to the swell of Eva’s left breast, putting it out. She grunts and shifts, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You know, Miss Eva, I don’t smoke. Except when I’m working.”

He presses the amber end of the cigarette to the right of her navel and she groans. Laughing, he moves up her body and presses it on the top swell of her right breast, pushing hard into her skin. She cries out. “Not loud enough sweetheart,” he says, pushing the cigarette to her shoulder. “Wait, didn’t we play this game before?” He touches her thigh. “Oh yes. You know, I hear that scar tissue is more painful. Let’s test that theory.”

He presses the cigarette to one of her previous scars and the pain is searing through her skull. She screams, despite herself. He pushes into another one and another, going over each and every single one. She screams until her throat hurts, until her body hurts. Please, please hurry Sherlock, she mentally pleads. She doesn’t know if she can do this again, it nearly broke her last time. If he doesn’t outright killer her, and she lives to be found, will she end up sticking a needle in her arm one too many times? She could twitch, when he cuts her wrist to bleed her for his paint. She could twitch and he could cut too deep. It would be over so fast.

“My sweetheart, you are so beautiful when you cry. I wish you didn’t call out ‘Sherlock’, but your tears, what a turn on,” Flack says.

He puts the cigarette out on the floor and steps back. He unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his jeans. No, no, no, she thinks. Please, burn me again. Cut me, whip me. Just don’t take that away from me again, she begs in her mind. She closes her eyes when he climbs on top of her. He roughly pulls the panties to the side and forces himself into her so hard she bites her lip until it bleeds.

“LOOK AT ME BITCH.” He thrusts into her as deep as he can go, sending stars into her field of vision. “I’m out of glue, so this time I’ll just cut your eyelids off.”

She looks up at him but the tears blur most of the image. She’s not here, she’s back at Baker Street. She’s having breakfast with Sherlock and John. Mary is there. They are pretending to be happy, be normal. She’s back home in her apartment, with her favorite sweatpants and a good movie in the DVD player. She’s texting her friend Margo, helping her through her latest break-up with an obvious douchebag. She’s with Sherlock in his bed, this time she curls up with him and falls asleep. She’s out to dinner with John, sharing stories about their childhoods and finding all the similarities.

She doesn’t want to feel the tearing and warmth as he makes her bleed. The sweat dropping off his brow into her face. She screams when he thumbs one of her many new burns, no longer caring if she is found or not. She won’t survive this.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock and John get out of the cab in front of the factory. It’s a large grey building, covered in a thin layer of metal siding. The roof is pitched ever so slightly, the gutters a mix of black, white, and brown. Obviously replaced only when needed. The building looks so ordinary and so depressing. Sherlock hopes this isn’t the place where John will have to find Eva’s body.  
John looks up to the building and back to Sherlock. “This can’t be right, this place is not abandoned.”

“All the noise, John, the noise. Flack assumed we’d look for abandoned locations. He knew the Americans hadn’t figured out the Ripper connection, maybe he didn’t think we’d figure this out at all.” Sherlock begins walking into the building with John trailing behind them. It is the place. This dilapidated shed of a building is where Eva is going to die.

The place is so busy that nobody really notices two strangers. Sherlock looks around and finds two hardhats hanging on the wall. Putting one on his head, he hands the other off to John. 

“Look for anything leading to a lower level, he would hide her down below.”

“Right,” says John.

They walk around the main floor. Sherlock finds a clipboard and grabs it, pretending to make marks as they pass machines. Confident, fitting in. Can’t afford to be questioned or thrown out. He listens very carefully but he can’t hear a scream or cry, which only reassures him that they found the right place. He needs to find her, alive. He needs to prove to John that he can. What he really needs to do it apologize to Mary. Honestly, her way of going about things is very logical. She needed to escape her previous life and all its mistakes, so she changed it. Then she met John and fell in love and realized that if he knew the truth, he’d leave. He wouldn’t accept her for who she used to be. Sherlock should be able to understand that. Of all people, he knows how to hide things the best. Can he forgive her for shooting him? Does it matter whether or not she did? She nearly killed him for John. Sherlock has killed for John. They both love John and want what’s best for him. Hell, Sherlock just deduced that he and Mary should be best friends.

“Sherlock,” John touches his elbow.

He turns around to see Ronald Flack, in his own hard hat and vest, standing behind John. He sees John’s gun in his hand. Flack holds up his other hand holding a small black plastic device. “Empty everything onto that clipboard or Eva’s about to feel a lot of pain.”

John tosses a wallet and mobile, as does Sherlock. Flack pockets the gun, takes the clipboard and tosses it into a nearby bin. “Now gentlemen, walk towards that exit sign.”

As Flack leads them towards a small stairwell and forces them down, Sherlock wonders if Mycroft got his last text, if he is locked onto his mobile that he knows he’s tracking. Will they evacuate the factory and get them out? Sherlock knows that this room they are being led to has no windows, probably a storage room with only one door. Is this the end? When he was on the roof, he had a plan. He was walking into a sure-death situation with a plan, with backup. Now it’s depending on Mycroft to figure it out. He may tease, but Mycroft may actually be the smart one. At least he better be.

They approach a metal door and Flack prompts him to open the door. Sherlock doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to see what he knows is in there, but he wants to swing it open and rescue her. Wrap her up in his coat and hand her to John as an apology gift.

He opens the door and sees Eva lying on a stack of pallets with sleeping bags for a mattress. Her feet are chained, the length of the chain wrapping underneath the pallets. The same with her hands, they are by her sides with the chain wrapped underneath. She’s wearing only a mismatched lingere set, similar to the one Julia Stone was wearing in the case file. There are small burn marks on her breasts, stomach and thighs. There’s a small amount of blood staining her panties. He was already too late.

She looks at him with tears in her eyes and starts to scream. Flack tosses the small plastic device on the floor and it shatters. A decoy. He pushes Sherlock and John through the door and closes it quickly. John tries to approach Eva, but Flack grabs him and throws him against the wall where two chains and shackles are drilled in. “Chain him up, Mr. Holmes.”

“Let her go,” he replies.

Instead, Flack moves over to Eva, takes a Taser out of his pocket and hits her with it. He keeps the trigger depressed, the shock unceasing. She arches her body and screams, barely able to take in a breath. “I keep this on her until you do what I told you to do.”

Wordlessly, John gets in position and Sherlock chains him up. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

John nods and holds up his hands. “See? Chained. Now stop hurting her please!”

Flack laughs and puts the Taser on a nearby makeshift table. “Mr. Holmes, are you going to let me chain you up without a problem or are we going to have to do something?”

Keeping his eyes on Eva, Sherlock sits next to John and let’s Flack chain him up. “I know you aren’t afraid of The Yard, but Moriarty is looking for you too.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Flack says coolly.

“I’m only afraid of two things, Mr. Flack, and one of them is Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock looks to John. The other I’m afraid of is losing you, he wants to say. Fuck all, he thinks. He would say it right now if Flack wouldn’t use it against him. He’s realizing he failed John for the last time, by putting him in this position with no strong plan. Emotions are such dangerous things.

“Every mark you leave on my sister is one mark I will leave on you. When you have friends, it’s very easy to leave me in a cell alone with you,” John spits.

Flack looks to Eva. “Your brother? I had no idea. Ooo, this is interesting.”

“Bullshit you didn’t know. You knew we’d run the blood on the painting, which you had already run,” Eva pants.

“I knew nothing. I had your blood, I had that other girl. What was her name?”

“Fuck you.” 

“Ah, Eva, you’ve already been fucked twice today, can’t get enough?” Flack turns to Sherlock and back to her. “If you insist.” He undoes his belt and button, turning to Eva. “Now we played with burns last time, what should we do this time? I like this Taser, if I hit you with it, you’ll tighten up around me real nice.”

Both Sherlock and John begin pulling at their shackles. John is screaming at Flack, Sherlock turns to him. “John, John, she’s strong. She’ll make it, she’s strong. She will recover from this.” Sherlock feels his words are hollow. He doesn’t think she’ll live through this again.

“NO PLEASE DON’T” John yells, ignoring Sherlock. “Do whatever you want to me, just leave her alone.”

Flack turns to John. “Oh, you huh? You are little, tiny. Same eyes as Eva. But I don’t fuck men.”

“I’ll do whatever you want, however you want it,” he begs. “Please leave her alone.”

Flack approaches John and hits him with the Taser. His body goes tense and he screams out. Sherlock moves to grab him but the chains are too short. Once he got his reaction, Flack stands up. “You can watch. If I catch you closing your eyes I’ll cut off your eyelids.”

John starts to cry, actually cry. Sherlock can’t do anything. He can’t hold him, he can’t stop Flack, he’s worthless. Mycroft, where are you?

Sherlock watches as Flack climbs on top of Eva. He presses a soft, insistent kiss to her lips. Sherlock remembers what Eva said—that sometimes Flack would be romantic. The sick bastard whispers in her ear. She closes her eyes as he kisses her neck. His hands wander over her breasts and Sherlock feels like he wants to vomit. As Flack slowly fingers her, whispering in her ear, John’s breath hitches in his throat. This is all Sherlock’s fault, that’s what Sherlock thinks John is thinking as Flack slides gently in and out of Eva.

Think of something else, Sherlock begs his mind. His eyes lock on John. After Mycroft comes and saves the day, Sherlock will admit his defeat. Eva will go back to the United States to either heal or kill herself in an overdose. Sherlock will leave, disappear. Not like before, not a fake death, but slither quietly into the night. Perhaps he could find clients in Germany or Turkey. Somewhere away from John. Give John the space he needs that Sherlock can’t provide now. Sherlock needs John, can’t breathe without John, but John needs to not be with Sherlock. He wants to go to the clinic, raise his daughter and love his wife. The only pain he should ever feel is when he stubs his toe.

~

When John hears the final grunts and groans of Flack’s orgasm, he vomits.

He feels weak, helpless. He needs to be strong for Eva. She’s covered in burns, tears streaming down her face. Red marks on her body indicate where Flack tased her. The breathing is shallow but slow. He can sense she’s given up and he has to stay strong enough not to let her.

Wordlessly, Flack pulls his pants up and begins to hum bars to the Van Morrison song ‘Sweet Thing.’ John watches as he pulls shopping bags into the center of the room. He walks to the corner of the room and produces an easel. He begins to line paint brushes up on top of a stack of boxes. He pulls a canvas from next to the wall and sets it on the easel. He moves to another shopping bag and pulls out three glass jars.

“I’ve been toying with the idea of using needles to draw my blood,” Flack begins. “It would be more convenient. Less contaminants affecting the texture and the way it dries on the canvas. But there is something extremely sexy about watching the blood drip down from the wrist. The sound as the first several drops as they hit the glass. It’s amazing. Want to hear it?”

“Only if it’s your blood hitting that jar,” John says. He glances over to see Sherlock pale, lips moving slightly as if in speech. That’s when it hit him, Sherlock has no plan. Sherlock is waiting for Mycroft or Lestrade, there is no plan. He feels sad for Sherlock in this moment. Sherlock told him about Mary because he cared about John and wanted John to know the truth. Sherlock saw Mary’s lies as a threat to him so he tried to eliminate that threat. His anger towards Mary is Sherlock’s way of protecting him. Now he has nothing. Eva has given up, now Sherlock has given up too.

“Oh, no no no, mine is no good,” Flack replies. He grabs a jar and sets it on the ground next to the pallets Eva lies on. He grabs her wrist and removes the chain, securing her wrist to the pallet at an angle with a plastic zip tie. Returning to the shopping bags, he pulls out a package of kitchen knives. He rips it open and grabs the largest one, moving back to Eva. “I hope this one is nice and sharp, or this is going to hurt.” Flack puts the knife to Eva’s wrist and she twitches her whole body.

“Eva, my sweetheart, where you trying to get away?” He grabs her hair and pulls her head towards him. “Why would you do that? I want you to see my painting.” He lets her hair go and makes a small cut in her wrist, barely a centimeter long. Just enough for blood to begin to drip into the jar below. “Since you are in such a hurry…”

Ronald Flack stabs Eva in the stomach.

~

She can’t breathe, the pain in burning. She feels the fire down in her toes. She’s only slightly aware of John screaming and Sherlock yelling at Flack to stop. She watches as Flack trades his knife in for a paint brush, dipping the bristles into her wound before taking them to the canvas.

“I’ve never done it this way before,” Flack mutters. “But I really must have the rest of the blood I need for this, I can’t just use yours. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, if I unchain you, will you help me?”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Miss Eva, you didn’t tell him about what you did? Oh pity, that was the best part.” Flack dips his brush back into Eva’s wound and continues to paint. “I didn’t feel like getting my hands dirty, so Eva here reached into her body and took out her intestines for me.”

“You made me,” she cries. “Killing and painting just wasn’t good enough for you anymore. That’s why you want them here. Sherlock, John, just do what he says and he’ll leave you alive.”

“She knows what I’m playing,” Flack laughs. “Now help me.”

Eva sees Sherlock look painfully over to John. She can tell he doesn’t know which option will save her. Which option will create a distraction that will buy them time. That’s what Sherlock is trying to do, right? Buy time until his plan kicks in? Eva did a fair amount of research before soliciting him. He has a plan, he’s Sherlock Holmes.

“Sher….don’t…” she pleads. “Do what he says, save yourself. Protect John. Please.”

“Well now there is a thought,” Flack says. “Why not the good Doctor John Watson? He’ll be able to name the organs as he pulls them out of you!” Flack dips his brush again, this time pressing into her wound. Eva winces. “This one is starting to clot, dry up. I should have cut deeper. No matter, Sherlock can do it.”

Flack puts his brush down and grabs the Taser and a key from his pocket. Pressing the taser to Sherlock’s temple, he removes the padlock and chains from his wrists. “Good boy, not fighting back. Now, take the knife and give me a new wound.”

Sherlock looks back to John before approaching Eva. She sees a tear fall down his cheek. Flack presses the taser hard into his temple. She knows that he may survive the shock to his brain, but it could kill him. It could cause brain damage, or nerve damage—a fate worse for him than death.

Sherlock touches her cheek softly. “Eva…”

“Do it,” she begs. “Please…make it deep. Twist it. Kill me, just do it. I’d rather you kill me than give him the satisfaction.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” he whispers.

Flack hands Sherlock the knife. “Do it. Do it or not only do I electrocute your skull, but I might take it out on Dr. Watson too.”

“Don’t be smart Sherlock, just do it,” she says.

In one swift move, Sherlock manages to hit the taser from Flack’s hand and onto the floor. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING STOP!” Eva screams.

Her vision goes blurry and she feels very tired. She was hoping for this, wishing she’d die. But she doesn’t want this, Sherlock and John to join her.

She tries to cry out again, but instead her whole world turns black.

~

Sherlock grabs Flack’s hair and punches him in the stomach. He feels dizzy and tired. Flack falls to the ground. Sherlock finds the keys on the floor and takes them to John. “John…” he mutters.

Flack comes from behind and grabs Sherlock by the hair, pulling him onto his back. Flack stumbles, grabbing the knife and plunging it into Sherlock’s shoulder. He howls, the burning worse than a gunshot he thinks. “J…Jo…” he pants, but when he looks over to his friend, he’s out. Knocked out? How?

Sherlock doesn’t remember how that would have happened, but right now he has to concentrate--his whole world going black. No, no. He can’t die without having saved John.

The last thing he hears is Flack falling to the concrete floor.

~

The man enters the room, carrying a tank and hose. Flack made a mistake and didn’t lock the door when he returned. Fortune for him.

If he wasn’t wearing a gas mask, the room would smell of blood. He picks up the butcher knife from the floor and moves to Ronald Flack, who is still breathing but out cold. Holding his head by the hair, he makes one swift motion, slitting his throat. The blood sprays on the floor and he lets his forehead crack onto the concrete. He can hear the choking and gagging as the unconscious man bleeds out.

These instruments he can save, he thinks. They can be mended and made to play again.

He goes to the woman, Eva Blackwell. Her stomach wound is clotting, her pulse is weak but there. He cuts her wrist free, searching the room for something to bandage the wound. He finds duct tape, wrapping the wrist in two layers before laying it on her chest.

“They will be here soon, you will live to play again,” he whispers.

He looks around the room, seeing keys near John’s feet. He quickly lets everyone free of their chains before tending to Sherlock’s stab wound. It’s shallow and not bleeding much, he will play again too. He does make the most beautiful music, the man thinks. He tucks a whisp of hair behind Sherlock’s ear. This genius is beautiful when he’s sleeping.

The other instrument is unharmed, physically. The man kneels next to John’s sleeping body. The poor man, he thinks. His suffering as only just begun. Pity, it’s his job to play him, his job to break him if he wants to. He doesn’t want to break him, not like this. It nearly brings a tear to his eye.

The man grabs the tank and hose he brought in with him and leaves the room.

~

“Turn those laptops inside out, I need to know what they were searching for,” Mycroft growls at the techs he’s brought to Baker Street.

He knows his brother to be a stubborn man, but with everything happening he would answer a text. It’s been nearly two hours and he cannot find him. Or John. No credit activity for either one. The trace in Sherlock’s phone has been destroyed. If Mycroft finds out that he was the one who did it, he’ll wish he was dead.

His mobile rings in his pocket and he answers without looking at the screen. “Mycroft.”

“Mr. Holmes, your request was denied.”

“What do you mean, denied?”

“The Queen said no.”

“The Queen?”

“Yes, and she said no. You are not taking over every radio and television wave to broadcast a calling card to…to him.”

“Is he now he who shall not be named? My brother states that this is of vital importance to the case.”

“If your brother is on the case, why did you borrow the computer technologists from Project H?”

Mycroft sighs and disconnects. Could he already be too late?

“Mr. Holmes,” one of the computer techs approaches him. “The last thing that was searched.” He hands him a slip of paper.

Mycroft reads the paper and dials another number on his phone. “This is Mycroft Holmes. Mobilize Royal Marines Team Omega, will text coordinates.”

“Sir,” Anthea approaches Mycroft from the other side of the room. “We can’t make contact with our woman sitting on Mary Watson.”

“Send a team there right away, have her brought to my office.” This is why caring is not an advantage, too many variables.

~

Sherlock wakes up to the sound of a siren. A fire alarm rings in his ears, pounding through his head. He sits up, putting too much of his weight on the side of his stabbed shoulder. “John,” he manages to say. “John.”

He crawls over to John and shakes him awake. John coughs and looks him in the eye. “What happened? I passed out.”

“I…” Sherlock turns around to see Flack surrounded by a pool of blood. “I got him. I must have. I blacked out too.”

“I’m free,” John stands up, free of his chains. “What happened?”

“Eva,” Sherlock says managing to get his feet underneath him and over towards her.

John joins them, immediately assessing her wounds. “She’s dehydrated, lost a lot of blood. How…” John notes the tape around her wrist. “Did you do this?”

“I…” Sherlock shakes his head. How can he not remember any of this? Was he drugged?

“Eva,” John says to her. “Eva wake up. Sherlock, help me. We need to get her upstairs.”

Sherlock scoops Eva up in his arms, his shoulder screaming. He cries out, but refuses to drop her. “I’m so sorry John, so sorry.”

“I know, let’s go.” He replies.

Sherlock’s body aches, his shoulder becomes nearly numb as they leave the room and climb the stairs. They are alive. He got them out alive. John walks ahead of him, and he thinks of how he was able to save him. He will apologize to Mary, John will forgive him. Sherlock will promise to be less Sherlock and make himself scare. John can live his happy life.   
Sherlock can make it alone. He did before.

When they get to the main manufacturing floor, all the machines are silent and the workers gone. The fire alarm still rings in the empty space. Sherlock notices metal shavings on the floor under a machine. What do they make here? Do any of the employees know that this place of creation was now a place a destruction?

They get near the door when Sherlock feels his knees weaken. He manages to slowly lower Eva to the ground safely as he collapses on the ground. “John, John help.”  
John rushes to Sherlock’s side. “Sherlock,” he presses both hands to his shoulder. “You’re bleeding out, I shouldn’t have let you carry her. Stay with me Sherlock, don’t close your eyes.”

“John,” Sherlock croaks. “I’m so sorry. I’ve only ever wanted to love you.”

“I’m sorry about before Sherlock, I was mad,” John starts to choke on his words. “I’m so sorry.”

“I burned you up,” Sherlock says. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock…we named her Shirley.” John laughs through his tears. “We named her after you.”

“’s a good name,” Sherlock smiles back.

“ALPHA OMEGA TEAM TO EAGLE, WE FOUND THEM,” a voice cuts through the air. 

Sherlock looks up to see ten men, wearing military combat uniforms, rushing into the building. Two medics rush to Eva’s side and begin bandaging her and putting in tubes and needles. She wakes up and Sherlock can hear her sobbing.

Another medic comes to his side and cuts his shirt away from his shoulder. He feels the sharp pressure of a hand pressing a bandage to the wound. “We need to evac this one too, he’s bleedin’ out.”

He wants to beg them to leave him here, let his blood mix with the dust, dirt and metal on the ground. It would be easier for John this time if he really did die. Easier for him too. He closes his eyes and lets the weakness and darkness take him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Flack now dead, the case is over. But the pain is just beginning for John.

“Where is he?” Sherlock pushes past Lestrade into Molly’s lab next to the morgue. His shoulder is bandaged, but a circle of blood is starting to form. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and there is tape dangling from the back of his hand where he took out his own IV. “Where’s John?”

“Sherlock,” he says. “Not now.”

“I’m his best friend,” Sherlock says. He won’t believe what Mycroft told him until he sees John. He can’t believe it, he refuses. 

He stops in the middle of the room to see John standing next to Molly. She holds one of his hands in both of hers and it’s clear she’s been crying. John’s face is stone. Molly looks up to Sherlock before John does.

“John,” Sherlock whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

John pulls his hand from Molly’s and approaches Sherlock. He looks at the ground. “You got what you wanted, you bastard.”

“I never wanted…John…”

John pulls his arm back and punches Sherlock in the face. As Sherlock flies back into the lab table behind him, holding his face, he fights back tears. “I never want to see you again, Sherlock.”

~

Eva smells that she’s in hospital before she opens her eyes. It smells clean, sterile. She smells her life and it stinks. She feels the pressure of the bandages on her body, that familiar smell of the gel they put on burns. She feels the IV needle move when she brings a hand up to itch her cheek. She still feels Sherlock’s fingers there. She can feel Flack’s too, but she only wants to remember Sherlock’s.

Sherlock. John.

She opens her eyes. The room is dim, the window showing the night outside. She’s alone in the room. She looks to her left to see a heart rate monitor, blood pressure gage. She’s been hooked up to a pain relief pump. Morphine. She searches for the handheld button often given to patients to monitor their own pain levels. She finds it and presses it several times, knowing full well she will only get one dose.

She hears footsteps coming towards the open door and sees John come in and plant his feet just inside the door. He looks exhausted, defeated. He doesn’t smile when he sees her. Maybe he’s seeing what Flack did to her the last time he looked at her. She’s dreading ever looking in a mirror again. Greg Lestrade comes in after him, hands in his pockets, a tight-lipped smile as he approaches her side.

“How ya feelin’?” Lestrade asks.

“Like I’ve been beaten, raped, shocked and stabbed,” she replies, with no hint of humor. “What happened?”

“Ronald Flack is dead,” he says. “Sherlock told me that he must have gotten hit in the head or something because he woke up on the floor and Ronald Flack’s throat was cut. The three of you were found on the main manufacturing floor by the Royal Marines, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes.”

He’s dead. He’s actually dead. Finally. She didn’t get the job, but now that he’s actually dead it feels pointless as to who killed him. It takes a moment before she can breathe again. She thought she’d feel more joy when he was finally dead, but it seems hollow. His death didn’t bring any of those women back. His death didn’t wipe away the memory of her hands pulling Julia Stone’s organs out of her body, or the burn scars, or the sick whispers of love he planted in her ear. It doesn’t even feel like closure.

“John,” she says quietly, wishing she had some water.

He approaches her slowly and wordlessly, sitting in the chair next to her bed. His eyes are red, his face is pale. His hands are trembling as they reach towards the rail on her bed. He grips that rail as hard as he can. He’s trying to control his breathing.

“How long have I been here?” she asks.

“Four hours,” he says. “You were in surgery. I couldn’t be here so they called me. Lestrade sent Molly up here to watch over you for a while, but she’s needed below now.”

“John, there’s something wrong, talk to me.” She’s found that despite herself, she’s grown attached to John. She cares about him. He’s her brother, and even though he got out without a wound, he’s still hurt. “John.”

“Mary’s dead,” he chokes out. “Mary, my…Mary is dead.”

“What,” Eva pushes the button on the side rail that sits her up. Her torso protests loudly, but she doesn’t care. “What do you mean?”

“Mycroft found her, his team found her. He killed her, Eva. Slit her throat and stabbed her.”

Eva remembers that Flack drugged her and said he was leaving. She remembers waking up to see him half naked, shoving clothes into garbage bags. They all knew that Mary would be in some level of danger, but they underestimated it. Eva herself would have put more pressure to protect her, but she felt that Flack would not be interested in her, a pregnant woman. It seems too perverse for even the sickest of men. She should have known better.

“We were wrong, so wrong,” he mutters, reaching to hold her hand. “You were not his Mary Kelly…”

Eva realizes she’s been crying, eyes hot with tears, cheeks wet. She looks at John and has never seen that amount of heartbreak personified. She’s talked to victims’ families, had to tell them their daughters were found dead. But never has she seen this level of pain. She wants to hug him but she’s pretty sure her body won’t let her move much more. The love she feels for him, the pain she shares, is too close. It’s scary, she doesn’t remember feeling this type of love for her mom since she was a child. “Shirley?”

John shakes his head. “The medics did a C-section and tried…but Mary had been gone too long.”

The room seems to get darker, the air gets thicker. A nurse comes in, leaves a canter of water, checks the machines and leaves without a word, and it’s only now that she notices Greg Lestrade is gone. John grips the rail with one hand, Eva’s hand with the other. She finds herself studying his hand. It looks a lot like hers. His eyes, his nose, the shape of his face. His face is full of pain, as is hers she’s sure. He’s still wearing the clothes he wore in that room. His wrists are still red and raw from the chains. She notices dried blood under his fingernails---did she touch her body at the scene? In the morgue? Should she ask or should she be quiet?

“I was young when my father, my adopted father, died,” she starts quietly. “I couldn’t be there for her, mum, I couldn’t even be there for me.”

“You don’t have to…you don’t have to say anything,” John says.

“After what I said at the gallery, I do. My mother completely died that day. She lost all reason to be functional. She didn’t have anybody to be there for her. I used to resent her, hate her for doing what she did. Making me raise myself. But I sit here, looking at you and how much you remind me of myself. You are my family, even if we’ve only known for two days. I’m…I know what he did to me last time and I never got over that. I’ll never get over this. But I’ll be here. Or I’ll go. I’ll take you to dinner and talk about what’s on the television or I’ll be the shoulder you cry on. You ask of me, and I’ll do my best to deliver.”

He wipes his face with his hand that was gripping the rail. “You didn’t apologize.”

“What?”

“Everyone else said they were sorry, but you didn’t.”

“Does it mean anything, really?” She, presses the button on her bedrail to lower her head down, finally unable to take the pain. “I could have been more insistent about security, I could distanced myself from you. If I had never hired Sherlock…”

He shakes his head. “I’m never talking about or speaking to him again.”

She wants to jump to his defense, start spouting off facts about sociopaths. She wants to tell him that if she stays here, she wants to continue to be friends with him. Eva knows better, though, interjecting into a friendship that she knows little about will do nothing to help either of them.

“I’m not going to say that I’m sorry because I know it doesn’t do anything.”

John leans forward and hugs her very carefully. “Thank you.”

~

One week later…  
John nods and shakes lots of hands. Hugs people, many he can’t even remember. He supposes that Moriarty could take all of London, since it seems that the entire Scotland Yard is present. Mrs. Hudson told him that he needed a bigger place for the reception and he just shrugged. She insisted on taking care of all the arraignments for the reception, since he honestly didn’t seem to care.

Eva came with him to the funeral parlor. She helped him make those choices he really wanted to never have to make. They went back to the hotel they lived in since she left the hospital—too hard to go back to the house—and they’d avoid sleep by talking about every moment of their lives before the met. When either one of them drifted off, the other would be there when they awoke from some nightmare.

He sees his twin sister standing across the room, talking to Mycroft, and he might actually smile.

He walks over, shaking Mycroft’s hand. “Thank you for coming,” he says.

“I understand that while others were specifically told not to appear, that I was welcome,” he says, nodding to Eva. 

John nods. “Yes, thank you.”

“I only wish…” he trails off. “You will let me know if you need anything, anything at all. If it’s help with moving things, running errands, financial, you will let myself or Anthea know.”

“I do need your help,” John says.

“With?” Mycroft asks, his usual smugness hidden beneath whatever hides his heart.

“I need you to find Mary’s family, if she has anyone else. I burned all of the information she gave me without even looking at it. I think they, if they are out there, deserve to know.” He swallows. “Please.”

“I will do my best,” Mycroft says. “My offer still stands for any other assistance.”

John shakes his hand again. He walks through the ballroom—a hotel ballroom was the only place big enough on short notice to contain all these people—and into the lobby. It’s quiet. He takes a deep breath. Did he really hope Sherlock would come, despite the ultimatum that night in the hospital? No, he knows he wouldn’t have been able to keep himself together, even though he is hanging on by threads in the first place. Best he never see him again.

“John?” Eva comes up next to him. “I came to warn you that The Yard is leaving, and they are starting to line up to salute you.”

“Right.” He looks at her. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks,” she looks down at herself. “Mrs. Hudson gave it to me, I have no idea if it used to be hers or if she bought it.”

He remembers Mrs. Hudson telling him of her past and shakes his head, contemplating cracking a smile. “I suppose I’ll have to go back to the house, maybe get you some of Mary’s things, if you’ll be…you know, here.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t want me wearing her things.”

“I need to take care of things.” John remembers Lestrade telling him that The Yard took evidence, dusted for prints, but that they didn’t hire crime scene…he doesn’t even want to think about it.

“Lestrade and I are going over tomorrow to clean, take care of what needs to be taken care of,” Eva says. “If you make a list, I can make sure to bring you things.”

“Thank you,” he replies. “I, I don’t know how I would have managed the past week.”

He looks at her tight smile and feels her embrace. She’s the only family he had here, really. Harriet attended the burial but didn’t come here---she said she was sober and this would just trigger her. Typical Harriet, it’s always about her. There is a part of him, deep down under that anger, that would have liked Sherlock to be the one who would stay up with him. He cannot forgive him, but he can miss him.

~

She watches as John walks towards the door and greets a procession of Yard officers, who salute and shake his hand in an orderly manner, except for Lestrade who swallows him in a hug. This is her chance, she thinks, ducking down the hall and finding an exit to the garden in the back of the hotel. She knows John will need to be with her tonight but after all these people she can’t manage if she doesn’t get a little bit of quiet in her head.

She wanders out into the trees. It’s starting to get dark and she can see some starts peeking out high in the sky above the glowing pink of the horizon. She puts her hands out in front of her and sees the trembling. She’s been doing so well, she’s only used three times in the past week. She was able to purchase heroin on an outing to the market when John decided he should try being alone for a few minutes. She’s never injected under tongue before and she really doesn’t like it. Makes her feel like a junkie, like she’s letting John down even though he has no idea. She can’t even take enough to really take the edge off, worried that he’ll notice. She knows she can’t be selfish, that John couldn’t lose her. But she also know that she’s going to crack and slip away from the world eventually.

“Wearing Mrs. Hudson’s hand-me-downs?” 

Eva turns to see Sherlock walking out of the trees towards her. “Apparently.” She puts her hands down. “He hasn’t mentioned you at all.”

Sherlock looks hurt, but quickly busies himself with staring into the horizon. “I’ve missed him. And you.”

She swallows. “Honestly, I’ve missed you too. Maybe he does, somewhere in there.”

“I never understood grief. Then again, grief implies that one cares. I’ve been told caring is a weakness.” He turns back towards her. “I’m experiencing it and not enjoying it. I can only imagine what it’s like for him.”

“He lost a wife and daughter. You’ve lost a friend. Of course you won’t feel it on the same level.”

“Eva, I came here to tell you something else. About Mary. Something that only Mycroft’s team knows.”

“John told me about her past, well, what he knows of it anway. He asked Mycroft to look for any family she may have.”

“No, about her murder. DNA samples were taken. Ronald Flack was sweating and his sweat was found on her body and the couch she was murdered on. Another DNA sample was found. Saliva on her lips. She also had telltale post-mortem compression bruising on her sternum…”

“Someone tried to perform CPR,” Eva interrupts. “One of the first responders.”

“No, it came back as a familial match. Funny, those sibling matches seem to keep popping up.”

“Who?”

“Moriarty. A male relative of Moriarty performed CPR on Mary. A brother.” Sherlock closes his eyes. “The bruising indicates he arrived within an hour of her death. He tried to save her.”

Eva runs her hands through her hair, not sure what she was hoping to accomplish with that move. “What does this mean? He didn’t want her to die. He wants you and John. Himself.”

“I woke up on that floor, everyone else was passed out, Flack was dead…”

She closes her eyes. “I can’t take this right now. I really can’t. I’m barely keeping myself functional for John’s sake.”

“I wanted to see you,” he says softly.

She opens her eyes and turns to him. He looks less hardened than before. His eyes are puffy, not red. He’s been crying, which is odd. Sociopaths don’t usually cry. Could she be wrong, could he be wrong about his very pathology? “Sherlock, if this has to do with what happened that morning, between us…”

“John won’t put himself within a mile of my presence, but you will. For now.” He laughs. “You know, the day John moved into Baker Street, Mycroft offered to pay him to keep tabs on me.”

“You want me to keep an eye on John?”

“I want you to promise you won’t hurt him, that you’ll let me know how he is doing, that you will take care of him,” Sherlock says, putting his hands on her upper arms and pulling her closer.   
“Please.”

“I promise.”

Sherlock leans in and kisses her forehead. “Thank you.”

It isn’t until he slips back into the increasing shadows that she feels her pocket is heavier. She slips a hand inside and pulls out a vial. It’s the dilaudid she stole from the hospital, which he took from her. Grasping it tightly, she bites her lip and turns to go back into the hotel.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Thanks for reading, I really appreciate it. I also love comments--they let me know what I'm doing wrong and what I'm doing right.
> 
> At the bottom of this chapter I'll include a sneak peak of the second installment, which I'm about halfway done with. It's more slash Sherlock/John, while this story really just set up a chain of events that leads to them figuring things out.

Sherlock watches as Lestrade and Anderson haul the couch of out John’s home. It’s wrapped in heavy black plastic, concealing the dried stains of Mary’s blood. The men manage to lift it into a construction dumpster before returning inside. Mary Morstan, Mary Watson, died on that couch. Seems so strange to just throw it out.

Is he getting sentimental?

He sees John sitting in the car. He came with them to clean, but after four minutes and fifteen seconds later he came out of the house, crying, and insisting that he wait in the car. Eva sat with him for nine minutes and fifty-two seconds before she returned. Judging by the rolls of carpet and the couch being binned, John couldn’t stand the sight of Mary’s blood.

Sherlock takes a sip of tea from a paper cup. Breaking into an empty flat across the street affords him the privacy he needs right now. Although he has been alone too much this past week. Mrs. Hudson would not stop pestering him to go talk to John, so he started avoiding her.

Sherlock hears the footsteps behind him stop. “Only took you an hour.”

“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” Mycroft says, looking at his brother as he stares out the window. Eva steps out of the house at that moment, carrying a large trash bag. She’s wearing black sweatpants and a grey shirt that is two sizes too big. Her hair is pinned back underneath a strip of flowery fabric. “I know you slept with her, Sherlock.”

“Of course you do, the cameras.”

“If you plan to remove John Watson from your life, you’ll have to remove her too.”

“Just how did I give you the impression that I care for her in a capacity beyond being John’s sister?” He turns to face his brother. “Sex does not love make.”

“Very true, but we’d both be ignoring the fact that she was nothing but a substitute.”

“I ignore nothing.”

Mycroft laughs. “Oh brother dear.”

“You didn’t come here just to chastise me for wanting to see John. This is about the DNA.”

“Unfortunately, Moriarty’s body was cremated, but samples from the roof indicate a sibling match.”

“He did shoot himself in the mouth, I was there,” Sherlock says pointedly, turning back to the window. “I was the only faked death that day.”

“We cannot know,” Mycroft argues. “What we do know is that Moriarty’s brother tried to save Mary’s life.”

“He saved my life,” Sherlock says. “He drugged the four of us, came in, killed Ronald Flack, and unchained Eva and John, but why?”

“Your blood test and Eva’s blood you took from her discarded bandages at the hospital indicate that you were drugged with an inhalant. So Moriarty’s brother saved your lives. Have you bothered to consider why?”

“That I have not figured out yet, I need John.”

“John has made it clear he wishes to have no further involvement with you.”

Sherlock swallows, knowing that he’s become too quick to cry in the past few days. “I’ll just have to use Eva to somehow trick him into…”

“That, my dear brother, would be more dangerous than caring.”

Sherlock listens to his brother’s footsteps disappear out of the flat. He sees Eva come back outside with Lestrade and Anderson, moving to the car to talk to John. Lestrade hugs John, Anderson offers a handshake, and the two men walk away to Lestrade’s vehicle. Eva is left standing next to John on the curb. He can’t see Eva’s lips at this angle, but John is talking to her. 

I need to do this.

No, I’ll be fine. 

Yes, I’ll call you when I’m ready.

I did, we should look at it.

It’s not that close to Baker Street.

Let her know I’d love to.

Goodbye, Eva.

He watches them hug and Eva disappear into the vehicle, leaving John to stand alone on the sidewalk. John stares at his home, at the place he lived and loved. This could be his chance, Sherlock thinks He could run out and talk to him. Apologize. Beg. Plead. Whatever John wants. Become a punching bag. Anything.

Sherlock has only cared about a handful of people: Mycroft, Mummy and Father, Mrs. Hudson. He’s loved them in the respected relationship, even if he keeps his parents at arm’s length and Mycroft, well, Mycroft is close in proximity and intellect mostly out of convenience. Dr. John Watson, he was another thing. Not related to Sherlock, just a doctor looking for a flat share. The moment he walked into Molly Hooper’s lab to be introduced, Sherlock saw something in him.

It’s only now dawning on him that it could be love.

No wonder Mycroft thinks caring in a disadvantage. It’s so bloody complicating.

~

He doesn’t like playing instruments that are out of tune.

Sherlock and John are out of tune. He fell in love with their sounds when his brother played them. He would watch from afar, knowing exactly why his brother did what he did. He never approved of his brother’s choice to blow his brains out, but he thought his game was over. How shortsighted of him. As long as there are instruments, there are songs to play.

He looks around his office. It looks more like his grandfather’s library, with dark mahogany wood shelves holding hundreds of old books. A globe sits in the corner next to a chess set. It’s a damned stereotype. His brother preferred to meet in abandoned factories or alleyways, but honestly. 

Ronald Flack was sloppy, careless, selfish and disgusting. He may be capable of some evil acts, and he has killed, but Mr. Flack slaughtered a pregnant woman and killed her unborn child. Both he and his late brother have places they won’t even go. Besides, a child would have given him more leverage against both Sherlock and John.

He hears a knock at his door and calls out to let his guest in.

“Hello, I was told you can help me,” his new client walks into the room and sits on the chair on the other side of his desk.

“That depends,” he replies. “What do you need help with?”

“Something was taken that is rightfully mine. I need it back.”

He smiles and leans forward, putting his elbows on his large wooden desk. “We may be able to make an arraignment.”

~

FIN

 

I feel like this episode was too short, but this is where it had to logically end. Yes, I think they will stick to the ACD canon and we’ll see that Moriarty is really dead and has a brother continuing his work.

SAMPLE FROM SECOND INSTALLMENT: THE VALLEY INN

“Ah, another set of twins in Mr. Holmes’ life. Yes, my late brother Jim was born second, two minutes or so. Always acted like the older one anyway. What about you?”

“I’ve known my brother for two months. Most of that time has been spent in grief.” Eva leans forward to speak into his ear. “Because you failed. Your brother would not have failed.”

“He swallowed a gun, I’d consider that a failure.” Moriarty slows the car to a stop. 

Eva looks out of the window and notices that he circled around and is back at her front door. “What’s your name?”

“I like Moriarty just fine. Consider this ride a free fare.”


End file.
